


Fisheye

by kinpika



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, more tags to add later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:12:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"What are you looking at?" Eren asks, voice barely above a whisper.</i><br/><i>Lowering the camera, Jean responds. "You."</i><br/>Jean is going on twenty-five, unsure of what he wants or where he wants to go. But then, he meets Eren, whose lost what he's wanted and knows where he's been. It's as if the world changes, but he finds he doesn't mind at all.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Jean walked into the room and saw in the corner one of the life painting models tipping a can of Mother into a coffee cup, he knew it was going to be a one hell of a day. Greeting his neighbours as he went to set himself up at the easel provided, he hissed at the cold of the chair, the early morning light, and how he was only running on four hours sleep. Lining up his pencils perfectly, the roll and crash of conversation around him not deterring in the slightest, he let his eyes slide over to the huddle of bodies.

Their heads were all bent, one of them only turning away to sneeze once, twice (not three times, not lucky, he remembered his mother’s words), and another tilted his head back to laugh. They were all tall, lean, broad shouldered and all had rather short hair. ‘Muscle definition’ was the message from last night’s email, followed by the usual talk of don’t be late, life drawings take time, email Ms Ral if you have any further questions. It would be a useful few lessons, Jean told himself, even if he had groaned continually to his mother over the phone about the classes. _“Life drawings are the basics, Jean-bo,”_ she had hushed him over the phone, as if he was still eight years old and not twenty-four, _“you’ll learn something worthwhile from them.”_

Stretching out his legs, Jean popped and clicked his shoulders and arms. Tapping a rhythm against the cover of his book, it’s just a simple distraction as he finds himself drawn to the crowd in the corner once again. His fingers fall out of rhythm when he sees a toothy grin from one of the guys that may be just shorter than Jean himself. Hair hidden under a deep red beanie, tight jeans and baggy shirt, thick jacket and a laugh that swept through the room. Jean watches him lick his lips and forces himself to tear his eyes away.

Ms Ral swooped in then, a stack of paper in her arms that was just asking for trouble, and soft lilt to her voice calling all to attention. Jean had never been more thankful for a distraction, even if it meant that he was probably not leaving his apartment for the next week,

“Good morning,” she said in that sing-song way which always meant nothing good would happen, and paper landed on her desk with a thud that had Hannah groan from beside Jean.

“It’s only good when we don’t see the homework until after the lesson,” Hannah grunts out, eyeing the stack of paper darkly.

Jean barks out a laugh, too late to smother the noise when all eyes turn to him. Ms Ral looks just about ready to comment, hands on hips in that weirdly mothering way she had, but one of the models steps forward then. Short dark hair, red scarf, all high cheekbones and angled eyes. Jean thought she was beautiful.

With Ms Ral’s attention taken away, the class erupts back into conversation. 

“How’s Franz?” Jean finds himself asking, in a way of something to do while they wait.

Hannah shrugs. “He’s fine most days. Still pats his legs like they’re there, y’know? I don’t really know what to do.”

“Ah,” is all Jean can offer in a way of understanding. He doesn’t, not really. He still has both legs, and on reflex kicks out his right foot. Hannah twists her hands in her lap, and they fall silent. Well done Jean, he tells himself, what a _great_ conversation starter. 

Halfway through running a hand through his hair, Ms Ral addresses the class again. “While our models get ready in the other room, please check that you have all materials today. Yes, that includes you, Mylius.”

Mylius, sitting across from Jean, flushes a bright red. Just for good measure, Jean sharpens his pencils one more time, because like hell he’s going to have Ms Ral over his shoulder asking him if he’s done that today. 

And then the door opens, and like everyone else, Jean finds his head turn towards the sound. There’s five of them, and now that they’re closer Jean thinks he could probably tower over four of them, maybe not the tall and blond male at the back whose says something aside. Especially when short, dark and bright-eyed took the chair closest to Jean (damn, he swears under his breath, watching red scarf take the seat beside him), rests his hand on his chin, and grins at Jean.

At me? Definitely at me, Jean definitely believes, ducking back behind his easel as he feels his ears burn. Ms Ral walks around the room, calling out instructions for five minute sketches sitting, ten minute sketches standing, fifteen minutes for poses artists want then another fifteen for models, just because. Only three sets of short ones, she reminds people, “don’t try to focus too much on faces and hair. Get the sculpture down first.”

Jean slides a look back over at the model before him, who’s _still_ grinning like the cat who ate the canary. It’s really, really, definitely weird and Jean scowls at him. Mr Model (as Jean starts to dub him) only grins that fraction wider. There’s a flash of Jean wanting to smack the stupid smile off Mr Model’s face, but he settles for simply glowering at him — and tampering down the childish response to stick his tongue out.

“Models, please sit upright in your chair. Start now.”

Silence settles over the class, only interrupted by the scratching of pencils on paper and the occasional hum of someone trying to figure something out. Jean gazes up a few times at most. Sure, Mr Model was a little slimmer around the waist and had slightly wider hips, drawn out rib cage and broad shouldered, but it wasn’t anything Jean hadn’t seen in a magazine. Legs aren’t anything nice either, arms are generic, boring face, Jean tells himself, but can’t help the little shine in the eyes that was completely unnecessary. 

“Slouching. Start now.”

Jean starts just lower and the right of his last sketch, shadowing in haphazardly drawn lines, running over with a blue pencil just to remind himself where everything is. At least he’s not looking stupid, Jean tells himself, when he looks back just to make sure. Except, Mr Model winks when he catches Jean’s eye, and Jean flushes a brilliant shade of pink. “Fucker,” he hisses under his breath, drawing an ugly nose in response. That’ll teach him. He’s shading in tense muscles on the arms when five minutes was already up.

“Leaning back. Start now.”

Short and dark bumps heads with blond and shorter, and they share a laugh that makes the muscles in his stomach jump. Jean almost forgets to start sketching, as he starts low on the belly this time, working his way up. His nipples are hard, Jean thinks for half a minute, but he blames it on how cold it is in the room. Until his model shifts his foot, widening his legs just a fraction, and Jean chokes on his spit while Hannah bursts into a fit of giggles beside him. Any extra shadow between Mr Model’s leg is entirely his own fault because there was no way in hell he was adding _that_ in now.

“Time’s up. Models please stand and stretch if needed. We’ll start the next lot in five minutes.”

At least he crosses his legs now, and Jean forgets Mr Model as he presses his forehead against his book. Hannah is still laughing, turning to Mina and not so subtly pointing at him. Jean sends them both a look that says ‘yes, I can hear you,’ when Hannah laughs that he only did it because Jean was staring so hard.

“I was not staring,” Jean mutters, but the fight leaves him when he takes another peek at Mr Model. The damn bastard winks _again_ when he catches Jean looking (“I was not staring!” he hisses when Hannah snorts), and the sheer mortification Jean feels heats up his cheeks like no tomorrow.

Thankfully, Ms Ral is a saviour, and claps her hands. “Models, please stand with palms facing the artists, feet shoulder-width apart.”

Whilst Jean adamantly ignores the scrapes of chairs on the ground and the laughter from Mr Model, he flicks to another page, sharpens his pencils, and readies himself. Ms Ral gives them all one final look over, before starting the timer again. And Jean’s eyes definitely did not drop the moment the timer started ticking away, no sir. 

Happy trail, he thinks, as he’s starting to thicken lines. Now that Mr Model is standing up, Jean notices the jut of his hips, skin closer to olive than what he’d initially believed, a thick scar wrapped around the upper left arm. With each breath, his skin stretches like it’s far too tight, and Jean wets his lips.

“Please raise your arms to shoulder level. Start.”

Jean watches the muscles bunch and rise, notices how he’s not as scrawny as he first thought. Fuck, he thinks, he’s more built than me. Sparing a glance at Mr Model’s face, he notices that he’s entirely impassive, staring off into a spot — Jean turns just a fraction to see where exactly — in front him. Colour fills Jean’s face as he watches Mr Model rake over his final composition for the last term, and he nearly forgets to finish his sketch.

When the timer goes off, all models lower their arms, and Jean pretends to be involved in Hannah’s conversation with Mina while he watches Mr Model roll his shoulders. Subtly was never a big thing for him, Jean finds, and the lesson today turned out to be a crash course in what not to do. Especially when Mr Model leans back just a little more, saying something to short blond, and Jean catches him staring back. Turning back so fast, Jean was pretty sure he just gave himself whiplash, his cheeks coloured again.

“Models, please face your backs towards your artists, and raise your arms in the same position.”

With one last roll of his shoulders, Mr Model turned around. Hannah laughed at Jean’s sharp intake of air and that was it. Would it be bad if he left now? Ms Ral would understand, surely, if Jean explained in the simplest terms that it was very, very unprofessional of him to imagine burying himself in Mr Model’s ass.

But, Ms Ral sets off the timer, and Mr Model raises his arms. Focus focus focus, Jean repeats, as he scribbles and scratches out something that does no justice to the lean curve, taut skin, firm ass. Jean’s always been fond of strong thighs, and he thinks he wouldn’t mind being suffocated by Mr Model’s in the slightest. It’s the last two minutes, and if it hadn’t been for someone whispering beside him, Jean didn’t think he would’ve noticed. 

“Is it just me, or are these guys really banged up?” he hears from Hitch, two chairs down.

Sparing a quick glance at red scarf and short blond while they are somewhat facing him, Jean can’t help the widening of eyes. A thin scar, only lit up by the horrible lighting of this room, slides across red scarf’s right cheek, ear to nostril, and there’s something resembling haphazard work stretching down the left ribs of short blond. 

But the timer goes off and Jean grunts. Mr Model lowers his arms, popping joints and shaking out his legs, another three minutes grace given before the last two sketches. But, around Jean, the class is buzzing, whispering, staring at messy backs and fronts, comparing sketches and whispers. Jean caught bits and pieces, talks going into the unbelievable. Jean heard someone compare tall and blond at the back to a wrestler on tv the other night. 

Ms Ral snaps her fingers, and the room hushes. “Models, if you wish, you can discuss poses with your artists during this time. You have five minutes.”

And they fan out. Jean kept his gaze well above navel level as Mr Model strode over, all smiles. Sticking out his hand, he spoke in somewhat accented English, and Jean found he couldn’t place the origin. “I’m Eren. Nice to meet you.”

Jean raised his own hand, finding dry skin and a splattering of freckles trailing up Mr Model’s — no, _Eren_ ’s — right arm. It was oddly charming. “Jean. A pleasure.” Unable to smother his own accent fast enough, he watched Eren’s eyebrows raise just slightly, and recognised that particular look — interest, like he’d found something absolutely fascinating to play with. But he turned to greet Hannah, and it was gone. 

“Any idea of what you want?” Eren starts, propping himself up against Jean’s easel like it was the most natural thing. Jean focused on the ceiling, and had to stop the biting anger forcing it’s way up his throat, coupled with the need to tell Eren to get that thing out of his face.

“I honestly hadn’t thought of anything. Maybe just for today, setting your leg up on the seat?” Hannah saves Jean again, and attention leaves Jean long enough for him to calm down.

Eren nods along, asking if right or left, what do they want with his arms, face, hair. Hannah takes the lead, hair mussing up the front of Eren’s hair and she’s laughing when he ends up just brushing his fringe back. Jean watches as his hair catches the light, and he sighs.

“And the second pose? It’s supposed to be your idea,” he finds himself saying, tapping out a nervous rhythm again.

“I could lie down? That’s honestly all I can think of right now.” Eren rubs the back of his neck and Jean almost finds it adorable, except he looks down once more and — _shit_. “I could ask Mikasa or Armin what they’re doing?” He’s throwing a look over his shoulder as he says names, but Jean honestly isn’t really paying attention right now.

Jean tells himself that this is just one of those things where once you notice something out of the ordinary, it’s natural to keep trying to look. Except when he turns back, Eren’s entirely focused on him, eyebrows drawn together in a tiny ‘v’. The effect is devastating.

“That sounds fine,” he says without knowing what he’s agreeing to, and Hannah is sniggering beside him in an instant. Sending her a dark look, he ignores how Eren looks utterly amused. Jean decided he much preferred staring at Eren at a distance and imaging what kind of person he’d be, not being up close and in his personal space, the only thing he’s actually wearing being a smirk. 

Ms Ral calls the class to attention, and models return to their seats. Eren says something aside to short blond — Armin? It was definitely Armin — and Armin shoves him. 

“And, timer starts now.”

Eren propped his right leg up on the chair, rested his chin in hand and splayed the fingers of his free hand against the stretch of his hip. It was the most textbook pose any of them could think of, as Jean saw tall blond sink into the same pose just behind Eren, but honestly it was fine. It was fine, he repeated, as he saw Eren seem to absentmindedly dig his fingers into the — what was it called? Iliac furrow? Adonis belt, his mind supplied, as he found himself shading around the muscle of Eren’s calves. Jean chose to ignore the sentiment, as Eren’s arm slipped forward just quickly, returning back with an apologetic smile. But he’d caught the movement, and gave Eren the angriest set of eyebrows he could imagine.

Don’t just rearrange yourself, he found himself berating Eren. Entirely internally, of course, because there is no way Jean could form the right and most polite way of saying that. Not when he was absolutely rapt in every little move Eren did, be it shaking his shoulders, tapping his fingers, pressing his weight forward just enough so Jean could assume not to let his legs go numb.

Jean is detailing the shadows along Eren’s cheeks when Ms Ral calls time again. Five minute break, and Eren’s scratching his chest as he says something to who Jean assumes is Mikasa.

“Last set of sketches. Please set yourselves up.”

“What did we make him agree to?” Jean finally asks Hannah, who looks like she’s going to split into the biggest shit-eating grin. 

“Just wait.”

Jean rolls his eyes and watches as Eren pulls a face at Armin, before settling himself on the floor. And watches closely as he lowers himself onto his back, grimacing at the cold tiles. Opening his mouth to ask, Hannah shushes him, and Eren plants one foot firmly on the ground, knee bent, the other lying flat. As if testing it, Eren arches his back, and Jean sends Hannah the filthiest look he can manage.

“I can’t believe you,” he hisses, watching Eren from the corner of his eye as he stretches out an arm, knocking Mikasa in the ankle and apologising with a laugh. His free hand falls behind his head, and Eren finally looks over.

“This okay?” 

Jean finds that Eren is asking him, not them both, and he just turns away. Nope, not dealing with this, not at all, he tells himself, pressing his thumb into his pencil probably too hard. Hannah’s talking to Eren, telling him it’s fine, if he’s uncomfortable he can stand, but Eren waves off the concern.

And he says, almost innocently, “It’s not that bad down here.”

Closing his eyes, Jean hopes he’s joking. Starting the timer again, Ms Ral is doing her loop around the ten of them again, sharp eyes catching on work. Letting out a sharp breath, Jean focuses as best he can. Outlining muscles, softening and hardening here and there, he tells himself that it’s like drawing out of a book. Reference material for later. 

Referencing what, he asks himself, and puts that question in the back of his mind for later. In his sketch, Eren has his eyes shut, so Jean can’t imagine what he’s staring up at him like.

Ms Ral is at his shoulder as he’s running the last few lines over Eren’s ankle. “Good work as always, Jean,” is all she offers, before moving on. Jean lets out a sigh, and moves on from bony ankles to knees.

This is the longest fifteen minutes he had ever experienced, Jean was absolutely sure of that. No matter how many credits this class got him, not matter how much he’d learn technically from it, it wasn’t worth sitting here sketching a guy who was built in all the ways Jean liked and wanted to viciously deny. Shooting another look over, Jean removed any thoughts of hovering over Eren while he was like that, and ignored entirely how the late morning sun made him seem to glow. 

As the egg timer went off, Jean let out the most relieved sound. Setting his pencil down, he leaned over the back of his chair, cracking his back. In front of him, Armin helped pull Eren to his feet with a somewhat admonishing sigh, while Eren just laughed, all bells and chimes. Hannah thankfully pulled him away from watching them wander into the back room, encouraging him to compare sketches.

“Jean, they look amazing!” Mina says from somewhere behind his shoulder. 

Shrugging, Jean looks over at Hannah’s, and points to several places. “You always had a good eye for this sort of stuff, Hannah.”

Hannah flushes, pleased with herself, and babbles on about the poses and the model. Taking it as a clear indicator attention had lifted from himself, Jean sets about clearing his little desk space, pencils away, book closed, gathering an eraser that was more bits of rubber than something stuck together into his hand. Standing, he’s clapping his hands over the bin when Ms Ral mentions something about homework, take a copy of the homework each and read through tonight, yes there are six pages, no we will go through it in the next lesson. Jean already felt like curling up on the floor and crying because she’d want a draft by the next morning, probably.

Rattling open, the voices of the models ends up mixing in with everyone packing up as they leave the back room. Heat crawls up the back of Jean’s neck as he looks over at Eren, all smiles and beanie settled on his head like it had never been removed in the first place. Jean calls himself out on being completely unprofessional once again when he imagines shoving Eren up against the wall, naked or otherwise. Well, he tells himself, at least I’m not allowed to make a career out of drawing people nude.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, jamming earphones in to drown out the noise, Jean joins the crowd spilling out into the hallway. His feet are numb and his pockets aren’t any warmer than the rest of his body, but he walks into the cold hoping the sun will at least alleviate all his problems. It doesn’t, but Jean wasn’t expecting anything, in all honesty. When he catches his reflection in a passing window, he smooths out his fringe, wondering if he had enough time for a shower that night, and is halfway through a mental checklist when he hears —

“Jean!”

He can’t cover up the crushing disappointment fast enough apparently, as Marco’s wave falters. 

“You look like shit,” is all he offers, after clapping Jean hard enough on the shoulder that rattles him around.

“Feel like shit,” Jean says, with a sigh dragged up deep from his belly.

Marco snorts, holding Jean at arm length as he looks him up and down. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Leading the way, Marco throws only one look back at Jean, corner of his mouth drawing up in a smile. “Long morning?”

“You have no idea.” And Jean means it honestly, wanting to forget Eren the model and his long limbs and olive skin. 

They’re at the little over-priced university cafe, Jean dropping his bag on the floor with as much grace as a truck slamming into a building while Marco is gentle and quiet with the chair next to him. All but falling into the plastic seat, Jean ends up collapsing on the table while Marco goes up to order their standard large cappuccino, two sugars, and short black, painfully strong. From the corner of his eye, Jean can see the edge of his sketchbook sticking out of his bag, and decides it’s far too early for this sort of thing.

“Marco,” he starts, when Marco returns with two take away cups, “I think the universe hates me.”

“Jean, I’ve known you since we were thirteen, and I can tell you now you have said the exact same thing every Monday morning since then.”

“I’m pretty sure this is the real thing this time.” Jean practically inhales his coffee, burning his tongue.

“You have also said that every time as well.” Marco is far more refined, taking off the lid and spooning out the froth. 

“I met a guy and he was naked the entire time.”

Jean doesn’t react when Marco nearly swallows his spoon, just reached out and missed his sketchbook twice before he caught the corner. “He was a nude model and I’ve never been more thankful for eight am lessons.”

Eventually Marco recovers, saying in a sad sort of tone, “You really need to get out more.”

He’s talking into the table now, handing Marco his sketchbook. “I do go out,” he mumbles petulantly, but they both know its a blatant lie. Instead of arguing back, Marco just flicks through the pages of landscapes, shapes, and the odd drawing of some character, before coming to the works dated for that day.

“What’s up with the nose?” Is the first thing he asks, before working his way through. 

Making a strangled noise, Jean turned his head enough to judge Marco’s reaction. But, Marco was well versed in how to handle anything remotely surprising, remaining completely impassive as he flicked through the last few sketches of the model standing. 

“Did you at least get his number?”

Jean slams upright then, ignoring any filthy looks. “Marco!”

Taking back his book with more force than was probably necessary, Jean ignores Marco’s shrug. Shoving it back into his bag, Jean drains the rest of his coffee, slamming the cup down when done. Marco finds he’s gone wild-eyed and knows that anything he says is going to be ridiculous.

“You see my problem?”

“Remember when I told you to go to bed —”

“Marco, listen to me.”

“— at a reasonable time last night? Like, at least one am?”

“Marco.”

“You didn’t did you?”

“Fuck’s sake, no! Stop mothering me!”

“If you could see yourself now, even you would _mother_ yourself.”

 For the second time that day, Jean catches his reflection in the window, and sighs. Placing his head back on the table, Jean almost believes he’s back at his shitty apartment, asleep at his desk. Almost could fall asleep too, except Marco pokes him enough times in the arm with the end of a pen, and some first years run past the door, laughing about the rain. Jean remembers those days of innocence so well.

“It’s raining,” he states, Captain Obvious to all those around him. Opening one eye to watch the window get pelted by droplets, Jean continues. “I hate the rain.”

“There’s a party this Friday. Come with me this time.”

“If you saw the homework Ms Ral just gave us, Marco, you’d understand why I’m going to have to _unfortunately_ decline the invitation.”

Marco lets out a barely restrained noise of frustration, slamming the table with one hand — a little too hard as he scares the girl next to them. “Do yourself a favour, and get absolutely pissed this Friday. Please.”

Jean fetches his earphones out of his bag, pushes them into his ears hard enough to hurt, and turns the volume up until he can’t hear the stupid rain. “I’ll think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go again


	2. Chapter 2

At nearly quarter to nine, Jean throws his pen on his desk, figuratively throwing in the towel. Leaning back in his chair, he cracks his back, and eyes the calendar sitting to his right. Marco had invited himself over on Wednesday, apparently to dig Jean out from under his homework, and happened to circle Friday in a bright red marker. _And then_ he’d pulled out the most wicked set of puppy eyes to date, with a soft smile that nearly broke Jean’s willpower (nearly!), sweetly asking him to come out on Friday, please. 

“Hah!” Jean says to no one in particular. Like that was going to happen. His eyes stray across the room to a pile of textbooks collecting dust, and easel haphazardly leaning against the wall, and paint that should’ve been washed away a month ago. 

“Fuck it.”

It takes Jean fifteen minutes to find something that didn’t smell like it had been sitting at the end of his bed for a week or more. Another ten minutes was spent in front of the mirror making sure his hair was perfectly coiffed in a way that did not suggest he was running on less than five hours sleep with six coffees pumping his system. Jean’s out the door by quarter to ten with a vicious text of _i fkn h8 u_ along with several of the nastiest poop emoticons his phone could supply, to which Marco replied with a party hat. 

His car doesn’t start on the first three tries and Jean almost takes that for a sign to not go. Except it splutters to life on the fourth turn of the key, as if it suddenly realised it too wanted to seal Jean’s fate. As he’s driving, Jean found it remarkably sad that despite all the new roads and new little suburbs cropping up around the place, he knew where the party was going to be at. It was always only ever at the one place, even if people moved on from there as the night wore on. 

Jean arrives in front of the Townhouse On Third well past ten, late night takeaway run viciously disagreeing with his coffee. But he doesn’t leave the car. Not yet. Instead, Jean takes to staring out at the crowd sprawling out of the house and over the front yard, laughter and chatter heard all the way through the glass of his window. Jean clicks his tongue, and lets his head fall back against the back of his seat. Just looking at them all tired him out.

Steeling himself, telling himself that he deserved a night out and Marco had no influence on his choice, Jean throws open the car door. Incidentally, he nearly incapacitates someone who looks vaguely like Daz in the process, who goes from raging humour to raging temper faster than Jean could process. Oh god, he thinks, as Daz stumbles away with an angry fist in the air, what have I gotten myself into? What has Marco dragged me into?

Not as if Jean was a stranger to Friday nights at the Townhouse On Third, but it had been close to two years since he had even passed by the place, let alone set foot in it. Last time he’d been here, a guy was thrown out of the second story window and into the pool. Jean was pretty sure he had ended up running with Marco as the neighbours called the police, with Mina trailing behind humming the Mission Impossible theme song. 

Staring up at the house, Jean trails off thinking about two years ago and being happily content. But then he catches a form moving in one of the windows, sufficiently cutting off that thought. The grand rule of the Townhouse On Third was no one was allowed upstairs at any time. More than once, Jean had seen people booted out of the party for attempting to sneak upstairs. They were often repeat offenders, to the point where the crowds helped remove them. Jean had always found it kind of strangely incredible.

Yet the silhouette doesn’t seem to be leaving the second floor anytime soon, as if just accepted as part of the norm. Two years changes a lot of things, is Jean’s last thought as he crosses the street. But then —

“Every fucking Friday night,” Jean hisses, stumbling through the front yard, over those plastic red cups he’d only seen in movies and maybe a dead body here or there — no wait, that one moved! — around a couple which he thought he recognised from his 3D class, but he was the front door before he had time to check. Throwing a look over his shoulder at what he had to walk through, Jean takes back his initial thought at things changing.

Townhouse On Third hadn’t changed in the slightest, door wide open, and completely, totally invade-able. Jean remembered at least the first half of his first time coming past the house for a party, and worrying that something bad would happen because anyone was allowed to walk in. Honestly, he hadn’t even met the owners of the house until his third year of dropping past. Since then, Jean could count on the one hand the exact amount of times he had seen them in passing. 

For a split second, Jean nearly turned on his heel and left. But a solid body ran into the back of him and gravity nearly won. As he was righting himself, a firm grip on the door handle his only saving grace from landing ass over head, Jean was handed a beer, and found himself being moved along with the crowd. Apparently, a fog machine had been invested in, Jean noticed, as he was ushered past the kitchen and could not see his feet for the life of him. A little further in, he received a face full of something slimy (oh god, Jean thought, I’m going to die here), a necklace of glow sticks, and as he was pushed towards the back of the house, a sombrero. 

In less than a minute, Jean stumbled out onto the deck of the backyard, presence relatively ignored by those lounging around here and there. Jean spared one glance at the fog leaking out of the door and decided then and there that he was going to put forward a bill to make fog machines illegal. Furiously, he wiped at his face, pulling whatever it was off and was just about to throw the stupid hat away when he heard: “Jean!”

Turning towards where he heard his name being called from, Jean merely blinked at the sight. Marco was wearing at least three hats, standing only in his board shorts and a jacket that definitely was not thick enough for the weather. Beside him was Connie, and as Jean squinted through the dark, a person who vaguely looked like that short blond kid from his class that Monday. Vaguely, as they were looking around too fast for Jean to keep up, and several people these days had decided on the shoulder-length-haircut.

Marco waved his arm, calling out to Jean again as if he hadn’t heard him the first time, sufficiently drawing attention from several others who started chanting Jean’s name. Heat warmed his cheeks, and Jean pushed through the crowd, entirely ready to tell Marco to cut it out. Except Marco’s eyes were glazed over and he held onto Jean’s shoulder like it was his only real support from collapsing sideways. 

“Jean!” Marco repeats, free arm slapping onto Jean’s other shoulder. Or, at least, several attempts later, his hand lands on Jean’s shoulder. “My best friend.”

“Hello drunk Marco, I’m looking for sober Marco.” Jean couldn’t keep the sigh out of his voice. He’d hoped Marco would get plastered alongside him, not before him.

Marco giggles, and tips a little too far to the right. “Leave a message after the tone. _Beeeeeep_.”

Barely enough time to open his mouth to respond, as Marco’s attention is dragged away by something else, and Jean just helplessly watches Marco toddles off after whoever was waving from the kitchen window. Another sigh leaves Jean, before he sets his beer down on a nearby table, grabs a free deck chair by the pool, pulls out his phone, and is nothing if not determined to ignore everyone else. Giving himself an hour before deciding to sneak out, his swiping through various feeds and his browser history, definitely racking up a small fortune on his limited data in his attempt to waste time. 

More than once, Jean had to grimace as someone splashed him from the pool, and told himself it was only an hour (fifty-four minutes now!). Except he sees an opportunity to get back at Sasha, and as she crouched at the edge in front of his chair, Jean firmly planted his foot in the middle of her back and tipped her forward. The immediate response was a roar of laughter from those around, as Sasha resurfaced and called him something vaguely offensive and definitely not in something Jean knew, to which he flipped her off. Connie heaved her out with a ‘yes, yes, I know, he’s a horrible person’, but on the way past slapped a hand against Jean’s outstretched one.

Attention dwindled from there, as smaller groups of people began to move on. Jean assumed Marco hadn’t disappeared entirely on him, as he sees Mina shoot past more than once. “Hi, Jean! Bye, Jean!” she calls at least six times, until Jean makes a vague motion towards the house. Mina doesn’t zip past the pool after that.

“Twenty minutes,” Jean murmurs, as he brings up the little clock. So close.

“Twenty minutes until what?”

Jean’s head snaps up too fast, and he regrets it instantly, grimace firmly planted on his face. New person’s smile falters just a little, and Jean isn’t fast enough to smile back. Except his eyes widen when he realises it’s Eren, model Eren, that one naked person who Jean raved to Marco about until Thursday afternoon, at least. That Eren. 

“Anyone sitting here?” Eren motions to the seat beside Jean. And Jean could only shake his head mutely, watching Eren drag the chair closer still. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Jean wants to groan that Eren is the chatty type, but opts to tuck his phone away instead, as just one look across at Eren says Jean has his absolute attention. “You either,” is all he offers, and shakes out his left foot to stop pins and needles. 

“Oh, I’m living here for a bit.” Eren hitches a thumb back at the house, and with a grin continues. “Was planning on just staying in my room all night, but apparently that’s not allowed.”

That explains the person in the window, Jean muses. “Lucky you didn’t get kicked out then. They’ve done that to people before.”

“Annie threatened to throw me out a window. I figured it was safer hiding somewhere out here than up there.”

“Ah.” Jean wracks his brain for a minute, trying to remember ‘Annie’, and comes up with a fuzzy image of a short, blonde girl with a large nose. Marco and her hadn’t gotten along for various reasons, but she’d packed up and left first year into high school, apparently ending up Stohess Academy. At least, that was the rumour. Hitch was useless in confirming any of that, only laughing and walking away when people tried drilling her about it. 

Eren lapses into silence, and Jean taps out a rhythm on his thigh. His phone would go off any minute, and he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to politely excuse himself now that someone was beside him. This is when he needed Marco with his Jean-dar that pinged whenever Jean was incredibly uncomfortable.

“You know, I thought you didn’t like me all that much.”

Jean’s neck cracks for the second time that night, as he stares at Eren. Eren, who had suddenly gone all bashful, and even in the limited lighting, was a very nice shade of pink and rubbing the back of his neck. Eren, who Jean had seen naked longer than his last partner (and in public, might he add), thought Jean didn’t like him.

“Why?” If there was a squeak in Jean’s voice, it seemed Eren had the decency not to comment on it. But he definitely grinned at it.

“Dunno just… You glared at me. Like a lot. And you kept looking away and—”

“I wasn’t glaring,” Jean interrupts, brain catching up to speed and unable to keep the petulant tone out of his voice. He doesn’t _glare —_ he simply frowns; huge difference.

“What do you call this then?” Eren pulls a face that Jean assumes is supposed to represent his, but there are absolutely no similarities. 

Snorting, Jean just turns away. “This is coming from the guy who was _presenting_ himself to half the class.”

“Just you.”

Jean chokes, and Eren just laughs, hard enough he attracts the attention of those nearby. Warmth spreads up Jean’s chest and he can feel his face heat up. But he’s watching as Eren tries to catch his breath, gasping out “You should’ve seen your face!” between breaths. Watches Eren laugh and screw his eyes shut and wave a hand in front of his face, slowly coming down only to see Jean’s face again and go off on another burst of giggles. He wishes he had his camera then, to paint the light that reflected off the pool throw shadows across Eren’s cheeks, illuminates his eyes. Jean’s fingers twitch as he doodles something like Eren’s face onto his thigh.

Eren is still breathing hard as his laughter finally disperses, only the odd high noise that leaves him. He’s wiping his eyes, and Jean still hasn’t looked away, something about Eren keeping him rooted to the spot. And then, Eren notices. Vehemently, Jean tries to look away as Eren leans in closer, until their noses are just barely touching, until all he can see is green. “What are you looking at?” Eren asks, breath fanning over Jean’s lips. 

Jean swallows, wets his lips, telling himself to calm down. “You don’t have much of a concept of personal space, do you?” he asks, trying to deflect that look of Eren’s. Jean notices that Eren’s right eye is a lighter shade than the left. Just barely noticeable in the limited lighting outside, but he sees it clearly.

Eren’s face splits into another grin, and Jean has half a mind to think that now would be the perfect time to take the lead. Except, his phone chooses to go off, the alarm he had set telling him it was time to leave, and Jean freezes. Fumbling, he flushes in mild humiliation, mumbling out an apology, and swipes his thumb across the screen nearly four times before the alarm stops. 

“So—”

Jean is only able to form the first syllable when Eren silences him, lips firmly planted against Jean’s. Eyes widening, Jean watches as Eren squeezes his own eyes shut, one hand running Jean’s arm to rest on his shoulder. Eren is nothing if not persistent, cupping Jean’s cheek now, pushing Jean enough in some way of encouragement. Despite the bells ringing in Jean’s head, he finds himself responding, if somewhat hesitantly. And then Eren makes a sound that resonates from deep in his throat, and Jean threads his fingers through Eren’s hair.

They part, if only so Eren can pepper kisses over Jean’s cheeks with a smile that makes him feel remarkably gooey inside. “So you do like me?” he teases, and Jean’s partway tempted to push him over for that. Instead, he opts to pull Eren close once more.

Just as he rests his hand on Eren’s shoulder, however, Eren leans back with a grimace. Nearly tipping himself over in the process, it takes Jean half a minute to catch up to speed, and utter humiliation colours his face red. Part of him, the rational part that has long since been ignored, pipes up, telling him to get out before Eren says something along the lines of “haha jokes!”

“Sorry, my arm is kinda — wait where are you going?”

Jean’s pushing himself up, and Eren latches onto his wrist with a grip that would make an Olympian proud. “Let go.”

“No way.”

“I said let go.”

Eren narrows his eyebrows, looks rather fierce for someone who’s ears were still pink, and tugs Jean down. It nearly works. “No way. Sit down.”

Jean can feel himself reacting before he knows it. “You aren’t the boss of me.”

“And you aren’t the boss of _me_.”

“What are you, twelve?” Jean scoffs, and gives his arm another tug for good measure.

“On a scale of one to ten!” Shouting, Eren gives Jean one final tug that has him falling forward.

Jean lands with a hand on either side of Eren’s head, and it takes every inch of willpower not to rip him a new one as the deck chair finally tips over with their combined weight. He lands with an  _oof_ , an elbow to the gut, one ankle hooked around the metal of the chair and staring up at the night sky which insisted on spinning above him. It takes Jean longer than it should to figure out which limb was whose, and he’s pushing Eren off with a snarl. Ready to snap at what an _absolute fucking idiot_ he was, Jean notices Eren hadn’t pushed himself up. Instead, Eren is gripping his right shoulder; Jean only just notices the sling. 

Immediately, Jean switches off and on again, one hand reaching out to Eren. “A-are you okay?” Jean was not good with first aid. In fact, if his mother hadn’t insisted on making him repeat the course five times, Jean would never have been certified. By the end, Jean was just pretty sure they didn’t want to see his face again and let him pass.

“Do I look okay?” Eren hisses, eyes bulging as he rolls onto his back. A whoosh of air leaves him that sounds vaguely like cursing, and he’s rolling himself onto his left, slowly working up towards his feet.

“I saw you Monday. You weren’t like this Monday,” Jean finds himself babbling in an instant, still on his knees from where he had moved beside Eren, torn between a mental breakdown of doing damage and not knowing what to do next.

There’s a snort, and Eren’s slowly rearranging his sling. “I had pegged you for being quick. I’m glad I was right.”

That’s enough to snap Jean back to it, and he’s on his feet before he realises. “Well, excuse me for not noticing in the first place!”

“You’re excused,” Eren responds without missing a beat, still looking like he’s very much in pain, but there’s a hand on his hip now. 

Jean lets out a frustrated noise, throwing his hands in the air. This close. This close to snapping and wiping that smug look off his face, he tells himself. “Are you kidding me?!”

“This is coming from the guy who completely missed _a sling_.”

His jaw snaps open and closed, nothing coming out because Jean _knew_ he should've noticed the sling, until he gives up entirely. Turning on his heel, Jean doesn’t look back despite Eren’s insistent calling. It was well past the time his alarm had gone off at by now, surely, and he had homework to do and dishes to clean. Maybe even get that paint off the chair and floor while he was at it. There was enough at his apartment to do to make him forget what a complete nightmare of an evening this had been.

Working his way through a surprisingly thick crowd still crammed inside the house, Jean throws one look over his shoulder. A mild disappointment filled him, when he realised Eren wasn’t following him. Jean tells himself that was incredibly stupid and shakes his head as he continues forward. Eren thought Jean didn’t like him, and then kissed him, and then they tipped over a deck chair together and Jean was fairly sure he’d done some damage in the fall. Too much had happened and if Eren was nearly as rational as Jean, he would just walk away and forget anything ever happened.

Eren was not the rational kind. “You are really fucking hopeless, you know that?”

It’s a shout over the music, and Jean really wishes he would stop doing that to his neck as he turns around. “Says you!” he responds almost automatically, tone as if he’d known Eren for years. It took them both by surprise, as Eren’s eyes widen a fraction, until he settles into a soft smile.

“Give me your arm, you nerd.”

“Huh?”

Eren’s snapping the cap off a sharpie with his teeth, and takes Jean’s arm without asking. Jean notices he’s left handed, naturally or by circumstance he can’t tell, watching as Eren scribbles out a series of numbers on Jean’s forearm. 

“You’re going to call me tomorrow morning.” Eren says after a minute, around the cap as he tries to poke the tip back in. His voice is muffled, even more so by the music, but Jean catches the end of it.

“I—wait, what, why?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Eren gives him that look again, with much less pain in his face and more of the resignation that comes with dealing with people (Jean would've said idiots, but he was not an idiot, no sir, just a really, really confused person).

“Uh, no?”

“Jean last name, for pushing me over a deck chair and hurting my already broken shoulder, you are taking me out to lunch tomorrow.”

Blinking, Jean stares at the number on his arm, numbers slowly drying out. It was still too much to wrap his head around, in only a few hours at most and it would take him all day tomorrow to figure it all out, but a giddy sort of smile works it way onto his lips despite it all. “Kirstein.”

It’s Eren’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“My last name. It’s Kirstein.”

Eren grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, and the whole room lights up with him. I’m so fucked, Jean sighs to himself. 

“Yeager. Eren Yeager. Nice to meet you, Jean Kirstein.” He offers his left hand, which Jean takes if somewhat awkwardly.

“Likewise, Eren.” Whilst Jean doesn’t return the smile at the same wattage, he can’t help the corners of his lips turn upwards. Marco’s going to give me shit until I die, he realises, and somewhat resigns himself to that fate as Eren doesn’t let his hand go, only tugging him down for another awkward press of lips and a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW OK i was not meant to take this long to update but i did (i've been drawing up floor plans for the various places in this fic as an excuse that i'm actually studying and not wasting my day writing fics ahahaha)  
> sorry if this is a little rushed in parts i just HAD to get this done because yeah i didn't want to take too long and i had heaps of directions i wanted to go in and picked things apart and put them together etc etc so yeah hope you enjoyed the second chapter. thank you for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little dialogue heavy sorry, but please enjoy anyway!

When Jean does wake up on Saturday, it was closer to two in the afternoon. Blinking at the light just coming through his curtains, he groans and rolls back over. And then Jean bolts upright as he remembers the previous night, from pushing Sasha into the pool and making out with Eren the Model, only to be safely escorted home. Quickly, Jean lifts the sheets, and is glad to see that he still has his pants on.

Groaning, Jean flops back against the pillows. Eren was so _nice_ about the whole ‘I hurt your shoulder again so let’s dry hump against the front door’ thing. Jean grits his teeth, eyes his phone on the bedside table, and steels himself. Picking up his phone, and almost blinding himself from the screen, Jean scrolls through his contacts with a near permanent squint. Upon highlighting Marco’s name (that is followed with at least ten different emojis that were not all Jean’s choice), Jean holds the phone to his ear, and waits for his poor most likely hungover friend to pick up.

Closing his eyes, Jean is just about to doze off again when a croaky voice crackles through. “Good morning,” Jean laughs, pushing himself up.

_“I hate you.”_

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Jean took a few minutes to right the world before standing, heading towards his pathetic excuse of a kitchen.. “If you did, we wouldn’t be friends anymore.”

_“We’re not friends. Last I checked, friends make sure friends don’t touch the tequila.”_

Jean chokes on his water as Marco groans again. “If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine what face you’re making now.”

_“Which one?”_

“The ‘I’m hanging over the toilet bowl and my life is a mess’ kind of face.” Marco makes some kind of noise that is probably agreement, and Jean chuckles lightly. 

 _“I’m going to die,”_ Marco whines, and Jean can hear what sounds like him moving back to bed. _“I don’t even know who brought the tequila, but I am going to find them and—”_

“Give them a lecture?” Jean offers.

There’s a solid thirty second pause, and Jean regrets jumping into Marco’s sentence instantly. _“Someone got laid.”_

Spluttering again, Jean just decides against the glass of water and sets the glass on the bench. With a sigh, he pushed his fringe out his eyes, tapped his foot twice, and then realised Marco couldn’t see any of it. “He walked me to my car.”

The absolute curiosity in Marco’s voice rings around in Jean’s head with only one word. _“After?”_

“As in, we kissed for like twenty minutes and then he said he doesn’t fuck until after the third date or some bullshit and walked me to my car kind of _after_.”

Marco lets out a low whistle, and Jean can _hear_ the grin. _“That’s kind of adorable. How old is he? Please tell me he’s at least eighteen.”_

“I can guarantee at least eighteen from the way he kept pressing against my thigh like he knew just what to do.” Jean is not able to stop the burn in his cheeks as he remembered Eren’s cock pressed hard between thigh and hip, and the needy, breathy moans right up against his ear. Readjusting himself, Jean nearly misses Marco making a gagging noise.

_“I didn’t need to know that, thank you.”_

“Marco, remember when you used to be cool and shared all your sexual exploits?”

 _“You sound like a forty year old mother using the term ‘sexual exploits’. Jean, you sound like_ your mother _. I’m hanging up.”_

“He wrote his number on my arm with a sharpie that he like pulled from the front of his pants or something and it was really fucking hot and we’re supposed to have lunch,” Jean rushes out all at once, just as he nearly trips over the leg of a chair. 

Marco only laughs out his goodbye as Jean tries to catch his breath, reminding him that it was past two o’clock now, and if he wanted to have lunch at a reasonable time now would be good. Chiding Marco on sounding like a proud parent, Jean just smiles as he hangs up, absolutely elated. Stepping into what passed as the lounge room, although was more just a couch and a few armchairs huddled around a television, Jean flops into the nearest chair, legs hanging over the arm. His phone buzzes twice, Marco’s name popping up on the screen, and Jean rolls his eyes at the texts.

> gotta meet this guy n shake his hand 4 getin u 2 tlk

> b4 he touches ur dick tho lol

Deciding against responding, Jean holds up his left arm, tapping out the digits into his phone with his right thumb. When he’s pretty sure that the last few numbers were threes and not eights, he takes a deep breath, and dials before his confidence leaves him for good.

Pretty sure he’s about to hit voicemail and that he’s got the number wrong and this was the stupidest idea he’s ever had, Jean hears a very loud _“hello?”_ in his ear, and can’t help the grin.

“I woke up with this number on my arm and I was just figuring I should say hey, I’m the guy —”

 _“Jean?! You asshole! I said to ring me so we could go for_ lunch _!”_

Eren is not gentle at all to Jean’s poor ear drums at nearly two-thirty. Wincing, Jean holds the phone away from his ears as Eren has a little tirade about manners and promising to call before eleven o’clock. Jean calls bullshit on the last one because he’s not alive before ten on the weekends, much less functioning before eleven.

“Are you done?” Jean snaps, when the line finally quietens. Typical. He should’ve known the wide-eyed, pouty thing Eren did as he was leaving was all bullshit. Gritting his teeth, Jean covers his eyes with one hand. Might as well see it out now, he tells himself, to stop from hanging up then and there.

It’s very quiet, and very much a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, as Eren’s voice filters through. _“I thought you wouldn’t call me.”_

Jean can’t stop himself from asking “why?”

 _“You seemed kinda bummed out when I said I wouldn’t sleep with you.”_ Eren is nothing if not honest, and Jean kind of wants to throttle him, the sad act completely gone in an instant.

“That’s the reason you thought I wouldn’t call,” he states, still trying to wrap his head around it all. This was too much before coffee. 

_“It wouldn’t be the first time!”_

“You are a huge fucking idiot.”

_“Well excuuuuuuuse me for being stood up before for something like that!”_

Suddenly, Jean has a headache, and he truly wonders what the cause of it is. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down from absolutely chewing Eren out — how dare he lump him together with whoever else stood Eren up! — Jean closes his eyes. “I hurt your shoulder, remember? I kind of owe you one.”

Stunned silence. That’s what Jean would call it. Eren doesn’t snap back immediately, and Jean wonders if he’s put him on hold. It wouldn’t surprise Jean, in all honesty, the way the conversation was derailing so fast. He wasn’t even completely sure of what they were arguing about anyway.

_“Do you mean it?”_

Eren needs to stop the floaty, soft voice he’s got going on, Jean decides, as it does _things_ to his mental and physical health. Jean is sick of readjusting himself, grunting as he tries to get comfortable once more because he hated that stupid voice (and closing his eyes and imagining bright green staring back). “Forget it. Never mind. This is bu—”

 _“I’ll meet you at the 104th! You know where it is, right?”_ Eren interrupts him again, and Jean wants to tell him where to shove his lunch plans. Dry.

“Yeah…”

_“I’ll meet you there in forty five!”_

Jean stares at his phone as Eren hangs up. Fairly sure this was a universal joke and he’d wake up in a few seconds, Jean pinches his arm for good measure. It hurts like a bitch and all at once Jean rolls over, covering his face. Oh god, he thinks, I got a date with a model. 

Burning from head to toe, Jean can’t stop the grin that creeps over his lips as he remembers Eren barking down the phone at him. Eren, who was very attractive and mostly unaware of it and kissed Jean senseless the night before, was going to lunch with him. Jean, who had the worst luck with people and crawled into his own space more often than not, managed to not screw it up entirely.

Jean pumps his fist into the air, notes the time, and then scrambles around his room for something to wear. 

Out the door with not even ten minutes to get to the 104th, Jean is seething at the sudden surge of afternoon traffic and when an L plater cuts him off. Naturally, he can’t even find a park close by, and laments forking out extra change ‘just in case’ he gets caught up in the cafe. Just as he is walking up to the cafe, standing in front of the window and seeing Eren  on the other side, Jean decides it was worth it. Any frustrations at the other male completely melt away as Jean studies Eren’s profile (small nose, wide eyes, ears a fraction too big and hair just barely brushing his collar). Jean completely forgets why he was angry at Eren, if there was any reason to begin with, because he taps the glass, until Eren turns around.

Eren’s face lights up in the instant he sees Jean. Fingers twitching, Jean remembers his desire to paint Eren and those eyes of his so he could remember them forever. Instead, he squishes that urge, and opens the door, swallowed in a too warm cafe with only a few wet and sorry people, early afternoon showers probably scaring most of the customers away. Except for those going on in their 20’s, apparently, as he spies a group in the corner huddled over textbooks. Jean waves off a staff member and makes his way over to Eren.

Sliding in the chair opposite, Jean returns the smile, and takes the barb at the time with ease. 

“Get lost?” Eren asks, as he blows a bubble into his milkshake. 

“Are you going to give me a bad pickup line as punishment?”

Eren snorts, throws his head back and laughs. “Here I was going to ask for a map to your eyes. Damn, way to ruin the mood.”

Jean can’t fight the blush fast enough. Biting his tongue on a way to retort, he can’t thank the waiter enough for the water brought to the table. Hoping to swallow anything mildly embarrassing, Jean stares at everything but Eren, who insists on keeping those terribly green eyes focused on Jean. 

“I’m surprised you got here so fast. The townhouse is pretty far out of town,” Jean starts, chafing under a lack of conversation. Distraction, that’s what he needed, as he folds and unfolds the napkin on his plate.

Eren blinks, furrows his brows, and makes Jean wish he could take his words back. “Oh, I was in town with Mikasa anyway, getting my shoulder looked at. After, you know, I landed on it funny last night.”

There’s that name again. Mikasa. Jean remembers the pretty girl. And as much as he’d like to dwell on that, Eren’s pointed look about how he ended up falling over had Jean sink into his chair. “I’m sorry,” he insists, like he hadn’t said it a dozen times last night in between everything.

But Eren grins, very much shit-eating and not so much sweet, that it sufficiently kills Jean’s embarrassment dead. “So you said. It’ll take a lot to make it up to me. I am very sore.”

Jean groans, as Eren rattles off at least four dishes he would like to eat for lunch, please. When Jean goes up to order, he laughs as much as he can at the look the cashier gives him. Making a note of Eren’s appetite in the off chance they have a repeat, Jean promises to never buy him anything food related again.

Looking very satisfied with himself as Jean returns, Eren nudges Jean’s foot with his own. “Thank you, Jean,” he says, and Jean can tell he means it. 

Instead, Jean rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the other patrons of the cafe. “Just means we have to have a second date.” It takes everything in him not to just fall to the floor and cover his face, but the deep blush that blooms over Eren’s cheeks is worth it entirely. 

Eventually, they manage to strike up somewhat idle conversation. Eren is very inquisitive, Jean finds, as he asks ever little detail about Jean’s work, what he does, who he sees, why he was taking a class that painted nudes and what that piece of art meant. For his effort, Jean answers as best he can, at one point fighting with himself not to clam up and walk out because Eren was a bundle of energy, and it wasn’t exhausting entirely, just a little strange. It had been so long for Jean to be out of his little world that just revolved around his apartment, his mother’s place and the university. When Eren laughs at some poorly told joke, Jean smiles, and figures this wasn’t so bad.

“You ever drawn an old man’s dick?” Eren asks, just as Jean bites into his sandwich.

Jean gags, Eren laughs, and dodges any tomatoes thrown his way.

Eren, on the other hand, was surprisingly private. A mumble here about high school, and grunt there about living with three other people, and a sigh when Jean tried to pry about what happened in between. The only thing he was willing to talk about was when he broke his shoulder.

“I fell down a flight of stairs,” he admits, just as he’s tucking into his _third_ milkshake, while Jean is nursing a coffee, completely full.

“You fell down a flight of stairs,” Jean repeats, unable to keep the absolute horror (and amusement) out of his voice.

Eren nods, and stiffly replies “It was very aggressive and felt personally offended on me jumping on the first step, apparently.”

Jean just wants to smack him across the head, although Eren seemed acutely aware of this, and shook his head. “Nah, I’m kidding. I just missed the step and fell. Next thing I knew, I was staring up at the ceiling and was like, whoa, why is my arm twisted all funny? And then I was in ER and my dad was just shaking his head at me.”

“Your dad works in ER?”

There’s a noncommittal noise, and Jean wonders if he’s pushing the conversation too far again. He can’t quite tell, something about the facial expressions Eren gives aren’t indicators of successful conversation or not. Part of Jean, that was probably masochistic to hell, wanted to stick around Eren long enough to work it all out.

“Sometimes. I don’t really talk to him about his work. Kind of stopped caring about it when I turned ten or something.”

“Huh.”

Patting himself on the back for sufficiently ending the conversation, they lapse into a mostly comfortable silence. Except, Eren hasn’t moved his foot from the top of Jean’s, and his knee is really bony. Jean wants to comment on the lack of personal space again, but even through his clothes, he can tell Eren is running warmer than usual, and it’s not a wholly bad thing. It’s nice, Jean thinks, as he tries to subtly press his legs closer. 

At least, with the quiet, he’s able to study Eren closer. Eren’s off, all distracted and staring out the window. Jean’s eyes trail from the tips of his hair, down to the soft point of his chin, trying to remember everything in between as best he can. On his napkin, Jean scratches out Eren’s profile, until he’s nearly tearing at the paper. I need my pens, he muses unhappily, resting his chin in his free hand.

Eyeing his phone as it sat on the table, Jean looked between Eren and his phone, and back again. Eren wouldn’t notice, surely. He was far too distracted with some old guy fighting the wind with an umbrella, if the way his cheeks lifted were any indication. Watching Eren the entire time, Jean slowly raised his phone, tapped to focus on Eren enough times that he was sure his phone was not focusing on purpose, and snapped a shot.

Jean had not taken into account his phone may not have been on silent and therefore the shutter sound was surprisingly audible despite the low hum of the cafe. He can’t lower his phone fast enough, as Eren blinks and turns back, wide eyed surprise a good look on him. 

“What did you…? Did you just take a photo?”

“No?” 

For a one, single moment, Eren levels Jean with a stare, to which Jean raises his chin as defiantly as he could. But Eren’s hand snaps across the table towards Jean’s phone, knocking a glass over in the process. A shout of surprise leaves Jean, as he tries to take his phone from Eren’s grasp.

“Let me see,” Eren growls, and Jean almost wants to congratulate him on that wonderful grip.

Except that Jean is pretty sure he’s pink all the way down to his feet, and he can feel the frustration in him snap to life. “No way!”

Eren pulls him forward again, and Jean nearly slips face first onto his plate. “It’s of me. I want to see!”

Jean opens his mouth, ready to retort, when a waiter comes over. At once, their heads snap towards the waiter, who looks rather concerned and mildly frightened by the state of the table. It takes three tries for the waiter to ask him to leave, and Eren doesn’t release his grip on Jean’s phone despite the thinly veiled threats.

It’s started raining again, hammering down while they stand just a way down from the 104th, under the awning of a bakery. Jean’s holding a takeaway cup of coffee close to his chest, sending Eren a dark look out the corner of his eye. Naturally, it goes unnoticed, as Eren is trying vigilantly to unlock Jean’s phone.

“If you make it stay permanently locked I will kill you,” Jean threatens, as Eren taps out a different four digit code.

“I could take you,” Eren mumbles, frown deepening as the screen read he had to wait three minutes. “Even with a handicap.”

Jean scoffs, and shoves Eren, making him stumble out into the rain. “Handicap my ass,” he hisses, as Eren barks about the cold.

“Is that an invitation?” Eren wiggles his stupid eyebrows at the suggestion, and Jean pushes his face away.

“I thought you didn’t kiss until the third date,” Jean teases, plenty grateful Eren was slightly smaller than him, and that there was the handicap he was talking about, as he wraps an arm around Eren’s neck, holding him in a rather light chokehold. 

Eren pouts and looks away, as he mumbles. “I broke that rule last night.”

Laughing, Jean lets Eren go with an _oof_ after receiving an elbow to the stomach. “So I noticed.” Unable to keep the smile out of his voice, Jean revelled in watching Eren duck his head under his scarf. 

“Shuddup.”

Jean snorts, and leans back against the wall. The rain wasn’t going to slow down anytime soon, and despite the late afternoon slump he was feeling, Jean slides Eren a look, and grins. “Gotta say, most of my first dates don’t involve me getting kicked out of a cafe.”

“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?”

Unable to smother his laughter fast enough, Jean holds his coffee as protectively as he could as Eren tries to tackle him. “It’s your stupid fault for taking a photo of me!”

Flicking Eren’s forehead, Jean steps back enough until he feels himself backed up against a wall. Shit, he thinks, as Eren suddenly seems far bigger than he had only minutes before. Jean slides one look past Eren, decides that his best bet of turning this around would be getting him on the right, except his chin is tugged down, and Eren leans up.

Making a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, Jean happily returns the kiss, fists relaxing to rest his hands on Eren’s hips. Slipping his fingers underneath Eren’s shirt, Jean hums at the warmth of his skin, sliding his hands further up. Eren jerks at at the touch, teeth biting into Jean’s lower lip. 

Pulling back, Jean sucks in his lip, tasting just the slightest amount of blood. Running his tongue over the abused skin, he goes to tell Eren just where to stick his teeth, except Eren tangles his fingers in Jean’s hair and pulls him back down. Jean wants to argue, turn away and maybe sulk a little that he’s the one getting bitten, but Eren sucks Jean’s lip into his mouth.

Teeth nibble this time,  tongue laving over the marks instantly. Jean cracks an eye open, as Eren presses flush against him. And he nearly falls over at the bright pink cheeks, puffy lips, and half lidded eyes.

“Why are you looking?” Jean finds himself whispering, as Eren pulls back just enough that his breath fans over Jean’s face. All Jean smells is chocolate.

“Why are you looking?” Eren repeats, licking his lips. In no way did Jean follow that movement at all.

Chuckling, Jean leans down enough to rest his forehead against Eren’s. “Do you always keep your eyes open?”

“Mmm.” Eren leans up once more, tilting his head to the side, when someone behind Eren clears their throat.

Freezing instantly, Jean slowly pulls his hands from underneath Eren’s shirt, to sit far more appropriately on his waist. For his effort, Eren just scowls and looks over his shoulder, not moving from how close he was against Jean at all. Rolling his eyes, Eren finally moves away, righting his jacket, and then smoothing Jean’s shirt, before turning around.

“We were busy,” he says, rather gruffly. 

Jean notices that it’s Mikasa whose interrupted them, several parts amused and one part vaguely annoyed. Gaping a few times, Jean slowly lets Eren go, shoving his hands in his pockets as he tries to hold the front of his coat over the front of his legs. If Mikasa noticed, she didn’t breathe a word, just pinned Eren with this look that Jean didn’t understand. Eren glared back, pulling his jacket back over his right shoulder. They seemed to be having a conversation of sorts, and Jean lets his head fall back against the wall, as he tries to think of something other than the warmth of Eren’s back, and what they could’ve done had they not been interrupted.

Eren clicks his tongue, and turns back to Jean after a moment. Jean has maybe a three second warning before Eren pulls him down again, smashing his lips against Jean’s. Flailing just a little, Jean can’t return anything before Eren pulls away. “I’ll call you next week,” is all he says.

“Sure,” Jean murmurs, looking between Mikasa, who had found the bakery’s menu mildly fascinating, and Eren who didn’t seem to want to let go.

“I’ll call you next week and we can go to the movies or something.” Eren repeats himself, as if trying to make something Jean can’t understand real. 

Jean just leans down, presses his lips against Eren’s forehead, and pushes him away. “I’ll talk to you then.”

Nodding, Eren lets go, curling his fingers into a fist. As he walks off with Mikasa, he turns every five steps to wave at Jean. Waving back, Jean waits until they’re around the corner to pull his phone out again, unlocking it. Unable to stop the smile as he highlights Eren’s name, Jean sends the photo he took to him, and then clicks the button shut, pressing the device against his forehead as he laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

“You wanna go somewhere tonight, man?”

Connie is leaning over his chair, knowing full well that Jean was studying like the good student he tried so hard to be. Why else would he bother him when he’d finally gotten into his little studying groove? But it’s Connie, and despite Jean’s self-imposed isolation, he still made an effort to extend invitations — despite Jean turning down every single one.

Tipping his head back, Jean gave the most annoyed look he could manage, and poked Connie’s cheek with his pen. “Back off.”

Despite the scowl and overly dramatic rub of his cheek, Connie is grinning. Carefully, he pries Jean’s pen from his hand, setting it a safe distance away, before heaving himself up on the desk.

“Take a seat,” Jean says with a roll of his eyes, careful not to let anything get caught under Connie’s insistent backwards shuffle across the desk.

“Thanks!” he responds, with all the cheer that just begs to push him on his ass. But Jean doesn’t, because out the corner of his eye he can see the librarian hovering, and he really didn’t want to incite a world war at three in the afternoon.

“Anyway, back to my question —”

Jean interrupts Connie without batting an eyelash. His bullshit metre was pegging; he had to get this assignment in in the next hour. “It’s a Wednesday.”

Blinking, Connie stares for half a minute, before whispering a “oh shit, yeah,” and grinning sheepishly. “Forgot about that.”

“I can tell.” And Jean finally takes the initiative to shove Connie off his desk.

Naturally, they are kicked out of the library not two minutes later, as Connie swore up a storm about landing on his ass. Despite the annoyance at being booted out (and how his homework would suffer so terribly for it), Jean had to appreciate the sudden freedom. And Connie, for somehow managing to find him even though he was fairly sure he had hidden himself quite well this time.

“So, you definitely sure you can’t make it tonight?”

Connie dodges the swipe at his head, and walks off laughing. Looking over his shoulder once before he disappears around the corner, Connie sends Jean a grin. “Tell Claire I’ll be over for dinner next week!”

“She wouldn’t have you anyway!” Jean yells, but Connie’s around the corner, and it’s useless anyway.

Running a hand through his hair, Jean can’t help the laugh, before he checks his phone. It was getting on to four; he said he’d be over around five. Trost was at least an hour out of town on any given day, and no doubt it’d take longer around peak hour. Something Jean resigned himself to, as he began the long walk to the carpark, quickly typing out a message to his mother that he’d be there soon, before disposing of his phone in one bag or another.

Throwing his stuff in the boot, it’s not until he’s closing it that his phone goes off. Jean panics as he searches for his phone in between all his bags, books and cases. His jacket falls to the ground and it’s on its last ring when Jean finally finds it at the bottom of his portfolio case, just barely swiping in time to answer.

“Jean speaking,” he puffs out, not managing to get a look at the caller id.

_“Hey, Jean.”_

Jean grins as he recognises the voice, pulling his phone away just to see Eren’s photo light up. It felt like it’d been ages since he’d last spoken to him. Eren had appeared at Jean’s class on Monday, cast and all, bright-eyed and wiggling eyebrows. Except he hadn’t stayed for long, being dragged off once they’d done clothed figure drawings of Mikasa. They hadn’t spoken since then, beyond an odd text that was only answered hours later. Not that Jean was expecting much from Eren anyway; he’d been twitchy towards the end on Saturday. Something Jean hadn’t forgotten entirely.

“Hey yourself, stranger,” Jean teases, leaning against the driver’s door.

Eren laughs, and Jean can feel himself flushing despite it being just a simple sound. _“I deserve that. I wanted to talk to you Monday.”_

“Except for Mikasa.”

_“Yeah. She has really good timing.”_

“Mmm.” Jean almost expected her to turn up now, for one reason or another, but he was thankfully alone.

Silence fell, not exactly uncomfortable (not that it ever was with Eren), but Jean could feel the time ticking away, and wanted to get to his mother’s as soon as possible. Mulling over how to politely end the conversation, he heard a whoosh of air on Eren’s end, and prepared himself for the worst. Eren had a very bad habit of asking personal things, Jean had realised a little too late.

_“So, what are you doing tonight?”_

Snorting, Jean finally got in his car, kicking his seat back and the radio on. “Here I was hoping you’d ask what I was wearing.” A flush crawled up his cheeks as he said that, so uncharacteristically smooth, especially for him. At least, he hoped it was something like that. Hoped it was enough to woo Eren a little further.

All he got was a splutter of laughter, and could imagine Eren going as deep a red as he burned himself. Oh god, they make a pair. “ _Did you want me to ask something like that? I’ll remember for next time._ ”

“It’s always been a fantasy of mine to be asked what I’m wearing over the phone, I have to say. Kinda sexy.”

_“Do you hear yourself at all?”_

“I think it’s best I don’t,” Jean admitted, regretting his severe case of foot in mouth disease. It was all Eren’s fault; he could normally keep his cool around anyone else. Eren just managed to unlock everything in him, without even realising.

_“If I knew how to record phone calls, I’d play back everything you said just now.”_

“Pretend I said nothing and ask what you really wanted to.”

Jean half expected Eren to keep pushing the point, and was over the moon that Eren seemed to concede with Jean’s out. He’d won this round, Jean would get him next time. _“Did you want to catch up tonight?”_

Honestly, he had to wonder what it was about the middle of the week that suddenly gave people the urge to meet with him. At least most people he conversed with knew that it was dinner at his mother’s on Wednesday — but Eren didn’t know that yet, and Jean would’ve considered apologising to his mother or inviting Eren around.

But Jean still wasn’t sure where he stood with Eren to start turning down his mother, nor introducing him to his parent. It was kind of a sore spot for Eren, Jean had noticed, to define what they were.

“I have… a thing,” he starts, rather lamely if he said so himself.

Pause. “Oh, no that’s fine, I didn’t mean to —”

Interrupting, because he didn’t want to give Eren another reason to bury his head over relationships, Jean tried to be as nice as he could. “I’m having dinner with my mum tonight. I do it every Wednesday,” he added as an afterthought. In case this conversation may ever happen again (he knew it would, but that didn’t stop him this time).

_“Oh… I thought… No, never mind.”_

“Tell me.”

_“It was dumb.”_

“Well… it is _you_.”

Eren exploded, just as Jean figured he would. Several rounds of calling Jean names, plus the inevitable simmering down that was nothing more than seething through his teeth when he realised he’d been played. Jean liked that sort of reaction, just as much as embarrassing Eren entirely. But Jean couldn't deny the niggling thought, the one that made Eren so insecure when he was so confident about everything else — confident enough to pose nude in front of strangers, as Jean liked to remind Eren so fondly. But that was a topic for another day, not over the phone.

“I don’t know if I’ll manage to leave early, but I’ll call you when I do. We can plan something for tomorrow, or whatever.”

 _“Or whatever,”_ Eren echoes, with a smile that slips into his tone.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

_“Talk later, Jean.”_

Jean waited to hang up, until he heard the dial tone from Eren’s end. Watching Eren’s photo fade to black, until the time glared back at him, Jean hadn’t realised how long they’d spoken. It felt like minutes. It was dragging close to half an hour.

“Shit,” he breathed out, throwing his phone on the seat next to him, seatbelt in, and starts the car.

Pulling out of the carpark a little too fast, Jean ignores the odd look of annoyance from other students, and is glad when he’s on the freeway towards his house. It wasn’t like he was ever on time, anyway. Jean had always made a late appearance, anywhere from five minutes to nearly an hour — although that time was caused by an accident on the freeway and lots of traffic. He was never too sure if his mother had ever let that time go.

On the freeway, Jean laments traffic bound homeward, and gets stuck behind a truck. An odd fear strikes him of having an accident, like it always did, but then the truck turns off before he has too, and it’s smooth sailing from there. If he could avoid driving everywhere, he would (he only used his car for trips to his mother’s really, and only to classes if he was being amazingly lazy).

Parking out front, Jean checks his teeth, brushes his hair quickly, looks for stains. Didn’t want to give his mother another excuse for wanting to make him move back in. Running through at least twelve different conversations that involved ‘yes, mum, I am enjoying living by myself, no, I don’t need anymore money, yes, I’m eating’, Jean had to admit he was startled when his mother beat him to the door. She always managed to get him like that, ever since he was nineteen and coming home for dinner for the first time.

His mother, Claire, greets him with arms wide as she bellowed across the lawn about how he was half an hour late, like he always managed since he first got his licence. Waving off his mother’s concerns and pats and the pinch to his ear when he told her to stop, Jean follows her dutifully into the family home, smacking the doorframe with a hand just for good measure.

“You’re going to break that one day,” Claire says over her shoulder, as he sets his overnight bag by the couch. Jean rolls his eyes and has to resist the urge to remind her it hasn’t happened yet, so it should be fine.

Claire, after insisting that he should eat his weight in various items made of bread (because clearly he had been starving himself the past few weeks), barely stopped to take a breath. Jean leans over her shoulder to pick at whatever she was making, ignoring the strained “ _Jean_ ” that follows as he burns the tips of his fingers.

“Worth it,” he laughs, as she chases him out of the kitchen. His mother mumbles something vaguely insulting as Jean falls back on the couch, opting to channel surf while he waited for whatever dinner was going to be.

“Is Marco going to join us for dinner?” Claire calls, and Jean sticks his head up to watch her set the table for an extra person.

“ _Maman_ ,” he stresses, even slipping into French just to drag his point across, when she tucks in a third chair. “I told you before I left that Marco can’t make it tonight.”

Humming, she seemed to ignore him, and Jean had to wonder why his mother was going to all the trouble for setting the table. Normally, they just sat in front of the television and watched whatever movies were on free-to-air no matter how bad they were. And if Marco did happen to come by for dinner, his mother whipped up something quick and easy, normally covered lovingly in cream, for dessert — which just ended up being eaten out of the bowl anyway.

It had been that way for years. There should have been no reason to change it now, of all times of the year. But then, Jean’s eyes widen as he realises why, before he scrambles to his feet and crosses the few metres to the dining area again. “You’re kidding right? Tonight? Seriously?”

A pained look passed over Claire’s face as she smoothed her hands over the tablecloth one more time. “Jean, not now.”

“No, now is a perfectly good time.” Jean’s voice rose, and he could feel his heart hammering in his throat. No, he thought, no no no no no. “Why? Why are you letting _him_ into this house?!”

His mother turns towards him, hands on her hips then, a furious look on her face. “Jean Louis Kirstein, don’t you dare raise your voice at me!”

“He _left us_! Mum, he left you when _you were pregnant_! Why would you let him come back here?!” Clenching his fists by his side, Jean hated how his mother refused to meet his gaze. And he knew exactly why. “Mum—”

Finally, Claire spoke, soft and broken, just barely raising her eyes. She was ashamed. “Jean, please. For tonight… pretend. For my sake.”

“But—”

“He’ll be here soon. Please, Jean.” And his mother was begging him, again, just like that time only a few years earlier when he’d nearly hit rock bottom.

Jean was reminded of courtrooms and meetings with lawyers, never quite getting the full details but knowing it always had something to do with him. He was reminded of turning eighteen and meeting his father properly for the first time, and being conned into a different life with promises of anything he could ever want. Being spoilt and almost forgetting his mother for years, until it all came crashing down around his ears when he wasn’t what his father _needed_ anymore. That was two years ago. If his self imposed isolation was the result of that, well, he wasn’t going to divulge that information anytime soon.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, Jean settled for crossing his arms and gripping the fabric of his jacket as tight as he could. Any reminders of his father just reminded him of going back to that place, and Jean was quite ready to bury those few years well.

“I’m only doing this for you,” he finally conceded, even though every fibre in his body was screaming for him not to. Don’t do it, Jean, you’ll end up back there, machines pumping, pain, so much pain, screaming for mum I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m so sorry.

Claire hugged him, a hand cradling the back of his head like she used to when he was younger. “Thank you.”

The next hour was spent, sitting around for the devil to arrive. Whilst Claire did not appreciate the sentiment, she had to agree once dinner had begun to cool. “Like he would actually turn up on time,” Jean griped, only to receive a pointed look about his own arrival time. But that’s normal for me, mum, he had argued. Dad didn’t even turn up to appointments.

Finally, the doorbell rang. Jean stood, just as his mother did, unsure of whether to answer or not. With a wave of her hand, Jean took the signal and walked towards the front door. He felt sluggish, like time had slowed down for this moment, as if it was another turning point in his life. At the door, Jean closed his eyes, thought of calling Eren later (maybe even telling him everything just to talk to _someone_ ) and pulled the door open.

“Ah, Jean, fancy meeting you here.”

Gritting his teeth, Jean tried to form a smile, for his mother’s sake. It probably came out close to a grimace, judging by the look on his father’s face. Good. Jean found he didn’t care. “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Your mother, as mysterious as always.” And his father laughs, as if it’s some old joke that Jean should be laughing at too. Jean wonders if he shut the door on his father, would his mother really mind?

Probably, Jean thinks, as he steps aside to let his father in. His mother would care and then he’d care, and they’d just be an awful caring mess, probably with a few tears and hopefully ice cream. An almost ideal way to spend the rest of the night, once they kick his father out.

“Claire,” his father greets, kissing both her cheeks and holding her close.

“Oh, Nicholas!”

Jean pulls a face over his father’s shoulder as his mother returns the greeting, getting a very sour look in response. He didn’t deserve that, surely. Wasn’t his fault his father was all around a bad person.

Walking back to the television as they chat, Jean keeps the volume on low, just enough to hear what they were talking about. Ignoring the way his heart leapt to his throat, every time he heard his name, Jean regretted not keeping on top of his French so well. Whilst he spoke it around his mother, they normally met on the middle ground of German, with it being needed everyday. English was still something he poked and prodded her about, until she fell back onto her mother tongue, and Jean normally gave up until the next time.

What he didn’t like, was how they were discussing his time as an art student. At least ask me, he thought, throwing a look over his shoulder so his mother _knew_ he was listening. “Dinner’s ready,” she finally called, pulling it from the oven again. Acting as if she had been ready for his father all along. It left a bad taste in Jean’s mouth.

Sitting across from his father, Jean wished for nothing more than to leave. Or poke his eye out with his mother’s fancy silverware that _only_ came out for Christmas. That would surely leave a good enough impression. Jean watched as his father tucked into dinner, like it was what normal families did. Fancy dinner with fancy cutlery and fancy suits.

It reminded Jean a little too much of that time before, he couldn’t taste his food.

“So, Jean, your mother tells me you’ve been taking art classes for the past few years.”

Jean was halfway to taking a mouthful, and he knew this topic was coming. Instead of setting the food down, like his mother always told him to, he chewed, looked off to the side, pretended to be thoughtful. “I suppose,” he said around the mouthful, ignoring the scathing look he received.

His father nodded, as if that was a totally reasonable answer. But Jean saw the twitch in his eyebrow. “This is only for a break, of course?”

Shaking his head, Jean talked as he helped himself to another cut of meat. “Nah, I really enjoy it. Ms Ral says I’ve got ‘real talent’. Might get my own shows, y’know? Considering doing it full time.”

Whilst Jean knew it was a bad idea to egg his father on, having been on the receiving end of his short temper more than once, watching him simmer as Jean talked honestly about a future as an artist was worth it. His mother knew he was lying through his teeth, but his father had no experience in this department at all. Bitterly, Jean thought that if he had been around, he would’ve understood Jean’s kind of humour.

“I see… there isn’t much work for an artist, is there?”

“I haven’t started looking yet. Graduation isn’t for another year, was gonna wait until then.” Jean shortened words, tightened his grip on his fork, and happily slipped between all three languages he spoke. Veins popped in his father’s forehead, and Jean patiently waited for an excuse to kick him out.

“Credits don’t carry over for your law course, then?”

Jean wanted to point out that all his father was doing was asking questions, but they finally got to the root of the problem. Four years as a law student, going down the drain alongside his father’s money. Boohoo for the old man, Jean thinks with a smirk. “No, different faculties. And art is considered a step down for law.”

“That would make sense.”

Ignoring the dig at his choice of education post law, Jean busied himself with eating and not holding his mother’s gaze. It was getting a little too heated, and his frustration was building by the second. Whilst his mother just wanted him happy and healthy and enjoying himself, no matter what he did, his mostly absent father had reappeared and coaxed Jean into law, away from his original plan of a scholarship into art before transferring into something else. Maintaining the family business, his father had spouted, and Jean had eaten it all up without a second thought. He had just wanted a dad, after all and his counsellor said that no one would blame him for that.

“What about you, Nicholas? Still keeping the firm alive?” Jean could not deny a chance to call his father by name, something that irritated both his parents to no end. Why they insisted on him still being called 'dad' was beyond Jean, as Nicholas was little more than a figment of Jean's imagination up until eighteen.

“We’ve had many jobs, yes. Despite the little publicity stint from you.”

Grinning, Jean finally found his opening to really stick it home. Despite his mother rising slightly in her chair, maybe an attempt to stop them, Jean couldn’t help himself. “Ah yes. I fondly remember getting so off my face that I ended up running naked through the harbour, and nearly drowning in the proceeding arrest.”

Silence followed, and Jean refused to wipe the smile from his face. It was something he didn’t like to bring up around his mother, having watched her cry one too many times in the year that followed. A tender topic, as anyone would’ve expected it to be. Outside his family, and those who actually read the newspaper, Marco was the only other person who really knew the details.

Finally, his father spoke, face smoothed back into cool indifference, tone not betraying any emotion. “Regardless of how things… ended up, Jean, I want you to transfer back into law, and work for me again.”

“No,” Jean responded, without missing a beat. “No way.”

“You do not have a choice in the matter. I’ve already spoken with your university.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Panic started to claw at him, as he looked at his mother. Who, at a time when he needed her, refused to meet his gaze. “You knew?” It dawned on him. This was a setup. “M-mum… you knew, didn’t you?”

“Jean-bo… I didn’t want to—” she started, finally meeting his gaze.

But, his father cut in, clearly unimpressed with how the situation was turning out. “Claire, I will speak here. Expecting you to tell Jean first was clearly beyond you.”

“Don’t talk to my mum like that!”

“Do not raise your voice at me, _boy_!” Voice rising, hands slamming the table. Jean remembers being threatened like this once before, and how small he felt in his father’s office, because he lost a case.

Jean wasn’t the same person as that kid, and rose out of his chair slightly, staring down at his father. “Don’t think you can treat me like some piece of shit employee, dad.”

He didn’t see the hand fast enough, just felt the sting as he was backhanded across the cheek. Head turned towards his mother, he merely blinked, felt his cheek warm as the sting gradually faded.

Claire began screaming, something about touching her son, and Nicholas was yelling back. Jean couldn’t recognise them then, as mother and father. They were strangers, voices getting louder and too many hands waving. Raising his own hand to press against his cheek, feeling something resemble a swelling under the skin, he just looked between them once more.

Jean hadn’t realised he was flying out of the house before he’d nearly tripped down the sidewalk. Looking back, and sighing that he parked out the front of his mother’s, he debated walking back. Until he remembered his homework was in the boot and his overnight bag was still in the house with his parents. Kicking a rock as he wandered back, Jean dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialled.

Eren picked up on the third tone, greeting him in a smooth tone that had him warm all over despite how angry he was at his parents. “Do you want to go to the movies?”

_“Now?”_

 “I’ll pick you up on the way. Be there soon.” Jean didn’t wait for a response as he hung up, just unlocked his car and hopped in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha... um... update finally... sorry...  
> also yah sticking w the general idea that jean is german/french bc ideally this story is set in some sort of alternate-german-inspired-place-thing (with like trost as an outer city or smth idk)  
> hence why he speaks german frequently. only slips into english for classes. french is dwindling because he used to speak it around his mother when younger but hasnt spoken it at since beginning high school (idk lets say he got picked on it or smth (for being a smarty pants and knowing too much and jean /cant/ be one of the smart kids now can he, has to be the cool middle third) or just thought it was embarrassing bc his mum embarrasses him sometimes yknow how it is. cool kid jean kirstein.)  
> anyway, thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

They decided on some B-grade slasher/thriller with far too much jelly for blood and a bad guy who looked vaguely like his father when he squinted. Jean was definitely not above cheering when the bad guy was torn limb from limb by some giants, despite the slightly disturbed looks Eren had sent him. Wisely, Jean had chosen to ignore Eren and his poking and curious eyes, and was so absorbed in the movie he hadn’t realised they’d run out of popcorn.

Until Eren gripped their hands in the bucket, not letting go even after Jean flinched and tried to pull away.

“Talk to me,” Eren managed to say, despite the screams in the background and the splatter of a ton of tomato sauce. At least, Jean was still very convinced it was tomato sauce — that’s what his mother told him fake blood was when he was a kid, after all. She had also said something about Italians, but Jean had ignored that part.

“Can’t. Movie.”

Eren frowned at that but refused to let go. Somewhere along the line Jean had forgotten just how strong Eren was, and he winced when Eren twisted his fingers just a little bit harder than he should’ve. Oh, great, now he had gone and pissed off one of the few guys who would probably join him for a late night movie and dinner with no warning. Hell, Eren had even been waiting on his front step with an umbrella, long before Jean had arrived to pick him up. Marco might’ve been a safer bet, as Jean didn’t want to hurt whatever his relationship with Eren was. But Eren just seemed… 

(What were they? Was now a good time to ask?)

“Eren…”

“Come on, Jean. Tell me what’s going on.” Jean watches as Eren’s frown deepens, and he doesn't remember the last time someone outside his little circle cared so much. It definitely made him feel more pathetic about the whole ‘running out of his house leaving his mother and mostly absent father behind’ situation. God, if Jean lingered on that thought, he really hoped his mum was alright. Hopefully she hit his father over the head with the roast.

“Can we… can we do it after the movie? Please? I just… I need this.”

“You need a movie that has enough fake blood in it to fill a pool?”

His deadpan tone has Jean bark out a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

Jean does catch the mumble of “fucking weirdo”, but it doesn’t stop Eren from weaving their fingers together, squeezing every so often. Eventually, Jean kicked the empty bucket to the floor, so they could properly rest their hands on the arms of their chairs. Jean thought this might have qualified for a date, but then a guy on screen had his head ripped off, and Jean related far too well for this to be a proper one.

“I’ll take you on a better date,” he said, quietly during the last bit of screaming the film had to offer. He hadn’t thought Eren heard him.

“I’ll hold you to that, Kirstein.”

They’re walking out into the cool night, clock steadily clicking closer and closer to midnight, and Jean kicked a nearby can. Eren is leaning against the wall by the doors, left arm crossing his chest, holding his jacket in place. For a moment, Jean regretted dragging him out, and sighed.

“My dad came for dinner.”

There was no response from Eren, and Jean took that as a sign to continue. “I first met him when I was eighteen. He… I was so happy… to have a dad, y’know?” Jean knew he was mumbling, and he just focused on kicking the can around. A couple passed by them, Jean recognising them from three rows ahead in the theatre. They both looked green in the face. “I just wanted a dad. And then he appeared and wanted me part of his firm so I switched into law because he knew people and—”

Cutting himself off, Jean can feel himself tearing up. He hated talking about this, no matter how many times it felt good to repeat it to the counsellor, and have them remind him that no one blamed him for what happened. That was the only good part, of course, having someone tell him that he was still _good_. “And… for like four years, I was with him. I just, ignored the bullshit that he gave me because I thought I was worth something. Like, dad came _back_ for me, right? That meant something.

“But then I nearly died. Two years ago, I overdosed on fucking _something_ like my drink got spiked or whatever. I don’t know, and I don’t think anyone ever found out but… but they had to pull me out of the harbour… I got absolutely shitfaced and ran naked through the harbour and nearly drowned.” Turning to Eren, Jean smiled as best he could. “That’s basically it.”

Finally, Eren reacts. With a frown. “That’s hardly just it.”

“Eren, I nearly _died_. I think that’s the basis of _it_.”

“Yeah, okay, that part is kind of fucked up —”

“ _‘Kind of’_?”

“— but your daddy issues are just as fucked up.”

Jean at least still had it in him to look offended. “I do not have ‘daddy issues’.”

“Dude, you totally do.”

Crushing the can under his foot, Jean turns to Eren, ready to launch. But Eren is smirking, like he’d almost expected to rile Jean up just a little too much, and he’s got a hand on his hip. Eren was radiating raw smugness and he knew it. With the realisation he’d been played, Jean simmered, stepping closer. “Asshole.”

“We were getting a little too touchy-feely back there. I had to say something.” 

“Says the guy who wanted to talk about what happened.”

“Hey, if I knew you had daddy issues I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“I _don’t_ —”

“Jean, I’m _kidding_. Now, take me out to eat. I’m starved, and I could really go for jelly or something.”

“And you call me a fucking weirdo.”

Eren pushes himself up onto the balls of his feet, and kisses Jean. “I do want to know. Just, B-grade horror films aren’t a really good setup. For future reference, in case this happens again.”

Jean laughs properly for the first time that day, and wrapping an arm around Eren’s shoulders (minding the sling this time, of course), he leads them back to his car. Lips pressed against the side of Eren’s head, Jean smiles. “Thanks, asshole.”

“My pleasure.”

After loading Eren into the car, and telling him off _again_ for kicking his seat up on the dashboard, Jean lets him fiddle with the radio until they find something cheap and greasy and out of the way. Perfect for talking about feelings, Eren says, before he proceeds to slide out of the car with all the grace of foal learning to walk. Jean just walks on, ignoring Eren’s protests.

They get a corner booth with worn down seats and far too much gum stuck to the underside of the table. It’s oddly charming, in a vaguely disgusting sense. “I can’t believe you find _this_ gross after that movie you made me watch,” Eren does comment, when Jean says something. 

Jean only responds with a “You look right at home here.” He might’ve just come up with a new concept for Ms Ral’s homework. 

Eren, with his broken shoulder, leather jacket still held firmly in place, and the low lighting, looked like something out of a mob film from the late fifties. For a moment, Jean wondered if Eren was actually part of a mob — that would explain a lot about why he was so hesitant to talk about himself. And, Jean also had to admit, that thought was kind of attractive; dating Eren would be so dangerous.

 _Oh_.

“Earth to Jean, helloooo?”

Blinking, Jean comes back down to the little diner, and knows that Marco would have definitely called him out on thinking that. Maybe he should stop reading parts of his mother’s dirty romance books whenever he visited. It was starting to do things to him. 

“Sorry, uh… what?” Laughing awkwardly, Jean noticed a waitress pouring coffee into cups that weren’t there moments ago, and how Eren was tipping far too much milk and sugar in to be healthy.

“I asked you about your dad. Clearly, you had better things to think about.”

Jean doesn’t process what Eren said, because his mouth beat his brain in an instant. “Are you part of a mob, Eren?”

Eren blinks owlishly, and Jean is thankful that the waitress had at least left before he’d asked. He had already begun sinking into his seat, hoping the floor would swallow him up.

“Where did that come from?”

Well, he wasn’t denying it outright either. “I just… don’t mind me. Sorry. Tired.” Wow, his coffee was suddenly so interesting. All dark and black and he wondered if those few shows he’d seen about people disappearing into their drinks were true. That would be nice, right about now.

There’s a chuckle. “Well, to answer… no, I’m not. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

“Comforting.” He can’t hide the sarcasm in his voice fast enough, and Eren laughs.

Jean still feels like he wants to crawl into a hole and die, but at least Eren wasn't a mobster. He just happened to look vaguely threatening enough as he glared down at his coffee to be one. Ah well, Jean could still paint him as one for his next piece just because he knew Ms Ral would get a kick out of it — she had a thing for badly written gangster fiction, and Jean had heard rumours she’d even dated a guy like that once.

“I was in the army though.”

“Huh?”

For once, Eren looked embarrassed. It was so odd seeing the normally confident Eren shrink into his clothing, looking far too small. Jean wasn’t sure what to make of it. “I-I was in the armed forces. Once. A while ago.”

Even though he heard it as clear as day, Jean still had to process that a few times. Thankfully, food arriving proved to be a distraction (and Eren did get his disgustingly gooey and _red_ dessert, just like Jean had promised). It gave Jean time to run that little fact over in his head.

Well, it explained one thing — Eren was fucked up. Maybe more than Jean was.

“How long ago?”

“I got out about two years ago. Just been kinda doing my own thing since then.”

A sigh leaves Jean, and he dips a few of his fries in Eren’s ice-cream. “What happened?”

“Honourable discharge because of medical reasons.”

Medical reasons, Jean thinks, wondering if a broken shoulder lasted that long. Maybe Eren had a bullet still lodged in there. It was late enough that the thought of Eren scarred and ripped was really fucking hot, even if Jean knew it was highly inappropriate considering they were sharing feelings and ice-cream.

He definitely had some wires crossed somewhere, because the more he looked at Eren not looking at him, and that small nose and round cheeks and wide eyes, the more he just wanted to forget about dads and bullets and how messed up they were. Jean wondered if he apologised to Eren for thinking about bending him over the booth, would he take it as humorously as Jean hoped.

“I lied about my age and got in a few months early. Got good scores on all the tests and was promoted a few ranks early. Our squad got sent overseas. It was the first time I saw the sea, actually.”

“Wait, you’ve never seen the ocean before?”

Eren shakes his head. “Nah. Mum was always sick and dad was always at work. I saw it in books though, and on the internet. Wasn’t as blue as people drew it. I thought it was kinda green, actually.”

Jean can feel the muscle in his cheek jump at that. The irony that Eren’s eyes reminded him of the sea. “It’s refraction.”

“I know what it is! I’m… _whatever_. I saw the sea.” Eren takes a mouthful of Jean’s burger, ignoring any protests, and continues like there were never any interruptions. “We were out in the middle of this desert for a year, right. And then, I dunno, I hit my head once during some recon, and they shipped me home.”

He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and Jean has to bite back saying something, because Eren didn’t look like he was quite finished talking. “Spent the last two years couch surfing and getting tested. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit, Eren…” Trailing off, Jean isn’t quite sure where to look. Absentee father had nothing on going to war. Was there even a war? It had been so long since Jean had kept up with what politics was doing, that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of there being something like _that_ out there. Suddenly, and quietly, Jean realised he had kept himself far too closed off from the world for too long a time.

It’s Eren’s turn to sigh, and he’s looking out the window just past Jean’s head. “Please don’t do the pity thing. That’s what everyone does.”

Shaking his head, Jean finally takes Eren’s dessert bowl as his own. “No, I was going to call you a colossal fucking idiot. Who the fuck joins the army? Lying about their age as well to get in? You fucking dumbass.” 

“Uh, everyone?”

“Uh, newsflash. It’s the twenty-first century. Not the middle of the seventies”

“Whatever, fuck you.”

Eren sulks. Jean rolls his eyes, and picks at what remained of the jelly and ice-cream. It was far too sweet, but at (with a tap on his phone) nearly two am already, it tasted so damn good. Looking Eren over once, Jean decides that while they’re airing out bullshit family and horrible choices, he might as well keep rolling with it. God, he was so tired.

“I lost my virginity to my dad’s business partner.”

For a moment, Eren pauses, eyeing him. And then, he snorts. “I lost mine to Reiner shortly after coming home.”

That one catches Jean off-guard. “Wait… as in Reiner tall big Reiner who you _live_ with?”

“That’s the one.”

“ _Dude_.” Reiner was… _big._ For lack of a better word. Not that Jean was above imaging him with Reiner a few times, when he was very, very drunk and younger, but his sheer size was slightly terrifying.

“What, it was good, for, you know, the first time.”

Jean had to hold back from commenting that a guy Reiner’s size looked like he might be able to split Eren in two. Apparently, his mouth didn’t get the memo, and Eren just laughed and admitted that it was painful and took a few tries on separate occasions. “He’s good with his hands, in case you were wondering.”

“Thanks for that.”

“What I’m here for.”

Rolling his eyes, Jean figures they might as well order something else to drink, because Eren was leaning forward now, chin in hand, completely and totally focused on Jean. Jean, in turn, had to focus on a spot on Eren’s cheek, some missed food from the looks of it, in the hopes that he wouldn’t lose focus staring at Eren’s eyes. “I haven’t had sex in three years,” is what he ends up saying.

“Hah, two years.”

Jean is slow, but he’s able to put two and two together. “Wait so that was —”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Haven’t you ever…?”

“Nope.”

“Holy shit.”

Eren is doing this bashful sort of grin thing, and Jean knows on any other day, at any better time, he might’ve prodded Eren for an answer. It would explain why he put up such a front about sleeping with each other since they first met. Actually, Jean is very aware it would explain a lot of things. But, he keeps it light. “And you said Reiner was ‘good’.” Jean clicks his tongue, and sticks his straw in Eren’s cola.

“He was! I just. Whatever, when I was like sixteen I gave my best friend a blow job.”

“I let a guy jack me off when I was at one of those scout camp things. I think we were fifteen. Something like that.”

“Romantic.”

Grinning, Jean just shrugs. With his few sexual exploits, at least Eren seemed in a relatively close boat. Of course, Jean reminded himself, he had been part of the army for a few years there, whilst Jean had been out living the high life on his father’s expense. 

Oh, _father_.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Eren had been talking about this guy in his squad, just as Jean interrupted. 

“Nothing just… I don’t wanna go back to my mum’s tonight. But I left my bag there with a change of clothes and shit.” Running a hand through his hair, Jean wondered what his mum would think if he rocked up now in the state he was. At least he hadn’t been drinking, and that was something to appreciate. 

Eren’s attempting to shred the napkins with one hand as he speaks up. “You can stay at mine if you want.”

“I— Eren… it’s fine. I’ll go back.”

Awkward, that’s how Jean felt. It wasn’t like he was going to deny just how hard his heart was hammering in his chest that Eren invited him over, or the way he looked at him when he said it. It was the put out look on Eren’s face, and the way he seemed to then proceed to knock any cutlery around. Almost like he was trying to ignore him.

“I don’t mean like that. Eren, I don't want to impose…”

“I invited you.”

“I mean, I don’t know what we _are_.” There, he finally said it. They’d talked enough shit tonight for this to come out, right? Jean told himself that. “Like it’s fine and all for you to put up boundaries but for stuff like staying the night—”

Eren inhales deeply, suddenly. Stands so jarringly he knocks the table and Jean just barely manages to catch his lemonade from spilling on his lap. Staring up at Eren, Jean wonders if he’s gonna run. 

“Jean Kirstein, will you go out with me?!” Eren booms through the mostly empty diner, like there was a crowd of people instead of the usuals with nowhere else to go. 

“Sit down,” Jean hisses immediately, and he can feel the colour flood through him, warm and red, burning along every inch of his skin. Even his chest felt hot. He knew his ears had gone pink too.

“Will you?” Eren is still yelling, and the one thing Jean can appreciate is that he didn’t get down on one knee.

“Oh my god, yes, okay, just _sit down_.”

Eren sits just as suddenly as he stood, sufficiently killing the chairs, and Jean sinks as low into his chair as he can when the waitress comes over with a very amused “congratulations,” to refill their coffee. “On the house,” she tells them, and Jean turns another shade of red he was quite sure he had never reached before.

“Do you get it now?”

Nodding mutely, Jean doesn’t trust his own voice. He should’ve expected that. Should’ve expected Eren to pull some dumb stunt like that in public to put him on the spot but he didn’t. He needed to sleep.

Jean doesn’t let Eren even start on their coffee, just drags him out the diner after paying, and ignores the winks from those behind the counter. Covering his mouth, Jean hopes the smile doesn’t show. That he would never live down. Even if it meant Eren got all offended and confused again, him not knowing that Jean was beside himself was fine. It was so fine.

Huh, they were official now, then.

“I’m sorry,” Eren mumbles when they’re halfway to his house. “I didn’t mean to—”

Jean pulls over to the side of the road immediately, and doesn’t take his foot off the brake as he kisses Eren senseless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> resurrection... 
> 
> my bad on forgetting to post. and how dialogue heavy it is. eren and jean just talk a lot anyway so 
> 
> and idk if anyone remembers erejean fanart by ameizhao esp the "boy you'd ask out to the movies" one but i hunted for it and i had the bad touch playing through most of jean's monologue of i want to Do him lmao
> 
> i'm trying to stick to weekly updates instead of just whenever the mood strikes so (prayer emoji)


	6. Chapter 6

Jean’s alarm goes off at exactly nine thirty in the morning, and any other day he would’ve thrown his damn phone across the room for waking him. Except, he’d been awake for hours since crawling up the stairs with Eren giggling and kissing him, before they’d somehow settled into bed. Eren had asked him to tell him stories about school, when they’d stripped down to shirts and underwear (as it turned out, Eren was like a personal space heater, and Jean had taken full advantage of pressing his toes against his calves). Jean had made up some shit, of course, because school life wasn’t nearly as exciting as it was on tv, but Eren was into it.

And then he’d fallen asleep, absolutely dead to the world. Uncomfortably so on Jean’s arm, with a leg around his waist, and a part of Jean wished Eren had warned him about being a clingy sleeper. At least, he thinks, I got a few hours in. There was a small part of him that just hoped he could pull his arm out from under Eren so he could turn his alarm off. 

But, it wasn’t entirely sleeping beside Eren that kept him up for so long. It had definitely been a big factor, being able to keep a hand firmly against Eren’s back, skin warm and dry under his touch and feeling every shift of muscle, every breath as he slept. Jean noted that Eren had rather long eyelashes, that swept the tops of his cheeks, and his nose was just ever so slightly turned upwards at the tip, almost unnoticed had it not been for the proximity. Painting Eren into the ceiling above him was something that had definitely taken his attention for a while there, but no. Not that.

_“You really liked law, didn’t you?”_

Gritting his teeth, Jean thought of that line again, even though he told himself not to. Of course he did; even he knew that deep down, he had enjoyed it. Art was his second choice, something he never regretted but his scores were just that one mark off for law. Jean didn’t want to think about how much he liked it, because it meant going back to that _time_ , and that was still a blackhole. Besides, at four in the morning, when Eren was finally all talked out and warm and breathless against him, Jean hadn’t wanted to think about the past and the future, or his parents and studies and everything that could happen.

Fist forming in the front of Eren’s shirt, Jean had just wanted to focus on that moment with Eren’s _eyes._ He had finally been close enough to take full advantage of just how deep the colour ran, with irises a solid green, except where it was suddenly the sea on his left, three distinct shades growing from freshly mowed grass at his pupils, and dark as a stormy night near the whites of his eyes. But his right eye, _his right eye,_ bled gold. Fool’s gold, Jean had teased, had dragged a thumb smoothly across the lid of Eren’s eye until he opened it again, showing off that colour once more. 

In that moment, Jean had wanted to tease Eren for the use of contacts and excuses, because he had always thought his right eye was just that touch lighter, he just had never realised how much. Eren had claimed the contacts were just the cheapest ones the optometrist had, and Jean let him go on and on about it. He’d been so utterly embarrassed about it, and Jean had nearly jettisoned off to the moon, with how much moping and sulking and grief Eren had given him when he’d finally convinced him to open his eyes. 

“Don’t laugh,” he’d warned through gritted teeth, staring at Jean through his left, while he hid his right. 

“Of course I won’t.” Jean never fought the smile, though, at just how Eren was so determined to not let him see. Sure, there were a few things Jean wasn’t too sure to tell or show Eren just yet, but this had never been something he’d factored in.

“Alright. Alright, fuck, okay, just…” Eren finally pulled his hand away, and Jean had never fallen so hard in his entire life.

His alarm goes off again, and Jean finally pulls his arm free to turn it off. Pressing his lips against Eren’s head, he hated how he hadn’t budged once, and started to detangle himself. 

Finding his pants and shoes and everything else they had thrown into a heap had taken some effort. Part of Jean had wanted to stay quiet, for Eren’s sake. But then he’d stubbed his toe on the end of the bed, and given up, stomping around and taking Eren’s beanie and scarf for good measure. Slightly for insurance that he’d have an excuse to drop past once more. Fingers raking through his hair as he stood at the door, Jean looked back at Eren once more, and left. 

Beanie firmly down, Jean was thankful he’d taken it with just how cold it was in the house. Granted, in his few memories of this place it was always _warm_ because of people and body heat and alcohol. Jean had never considered the possibility that there was no heating (although it would explain the pile of blankets in the corner of Eren’s room).

Swinging down the last of the stairs, Jean is two steps towards the front door when he hears the throat clearing. Every part of him freezes, and he hopes to God it wasn’t Eren’s mother. With a smile, he turns mechanically. 

“Big,” he says, which only earns him a quirked eyebrow and a set of crossed arms. Realising, Jean shakes his head slightly, blaming the lack of sleep, and raises his eyes.

“Reiner, hi, uh… I gotta go?”

Reiner better hope the wind doesn’t change, Jean muses, as he is fairly sure he’s being mentally squished into the floor. At least, that’s what he gathers from the almost constipated look. Jean can only take so much, and he was still mentally preparing himself for the onslaught his mother would no doubt give him. A situation like this hadn’t been added into the equation.

“You two got in late.” Definitely just a casual observation on Reiner’s behalf.

Except Jean hadn’t quite caught up, and his mouth ran before the rest of him did. “I didn’t realise we had a curfew.” Immediately, he made a mental note to tired Jean, to rein himself in lest he receive a punch to the head. Even he winced at what he said.

A pause from Reiner had Jean think about if it were possible to out run him. Except a smile breaks on Reiner’s face, and he disappears back into the kitchen with a “you want breakfast?” shouted over his shoulder. It takes Jean at least thirty seconds to realise it was an offer of food, and not a fist to the head. Gingerly, Jean follows him, unable to deny just how hungry he was, and how good bacon smelt. Unable to remember the last time he had a proper meal that wasn’t bought covered in grease, or getting close to its best before date, Jean’s stomach roared.

Jean does freeze for the briefest moment at the sight of Annie by the stove, completely enraptured in cooking. Until Reiner pushes her out the way to start cooking eggs. Watching the elbow she throws back towards his side, Jean isn’t quite sure he belongs there. His brain hadn’t exactly caught up with the rest of him, and just how hospitable they were being. Also with how homey it actually was. For _whatever reason_ , he had always imagined this sort of place to be a bit blander. 

Spying the photos all but glued onto the wall beside the fridge, Jean was almost pleasantly surprised with how wrong he had been. 

“Fried? Boiled? Poached, scrambled?”

“Uh… what?”

The withering look he received from Reiner had him actually step into the room, and sit at a stool at the counter. “How do you want your eggs done?”

“Scrambled?”

Annie snorts, and starts lining up the bacon on a plate. Receiving a very short “eat”, Jean can’t deny just how confused he is. Maybe it shows on his face, when Annie finally smiles. Jean had to say that he had never seen Annie smile before, not once in his entire life, and he’d known her the longest out of all those in the house. It was very distracting, especially when a plate piled a metre high with scrambled eggs was slammed in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d finish it all — would Reiner be the type of person to get offended if Jean asked for a takeaway box?

“Eat,” Reiner reiterates, and slides in on a stool beside Jean. Annie doesn’t sit, just digs her fork into whatever is in front of her. Which also included Jean’s plate (he wondered if Eren picked up that slight trait from her, or she from him).

“Why…?” Jean finally starts, waving his hand towards the food, the stool, them. It wasn’t quite clicking for him, why they were doing all this. Had Eren said something? 

“Why not?” Is all Reiner says, around a mouthful. “My house.”

“Yeah, but… It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but Reiner, we haven’t spoken in _years_.” Reiner was the one who hauled him out of the harbour, after all. For whatever reason he had been there, Reiner was the first one to get to him. 

After that, Jean had avoided him.

“And whose fault is that, I wonder?” 

Clicking his tongue, Jean looked down at where his left hand was clenched into a fist on his lap. “I know. I’m sorry. Just, after that mess—” Jean cut himself off, frowning. He’d brought up that time more in the last twenty-four hours than he had in two years. Something about this entire situation was just doing his head in. “After all that went down, I wanted to move on.”

Reiner inhales the last of the toast, and after a moment, turns to give Jean his full attention. “Look, no one remembers that. Or if they do, they don’t _care_ anymore, Jean. You need to start moving on.”

“But—”

“I saved your skinny ass. Fuck’s sake, if you’re not gonna do it for yourself, or your mum, or even Marco, do it for me and get the fuck over it.”

Jean can feel the muscles in his jaw leap at that. With the way Reiner was looking at him, it was like he’d been holding it in for years, deciding now was the best time to tell him exactly how he felt. “It’s not that easy.”

“Jean, you’re a real mopey kind of guy.”

“Eren’s got his own problems to deal with too, Jean. It’s not just about you.” And finally, Annie jumps in, with a sorry sort of look on her face. Or, as sorry as Annie could look. Maybe she was patronising him, Jean could honestly never tell with her. “You’re not the only one in this world.”

“I know that.” He’s protesting, but he had never expected a dress down so early in the morning — and especially after being served breakfast! Maybe this had been a setup all along. Jean wasn’t above thinking Eren was part of it.

Annie gives him a withering glance, and that’s the Annie that Jean remembers so well. Honestly, it was comforting to know she was still under all that mothering act she was playing up. “He talks about you all the time, you know, ever since you two met. He thinks you’re a really ‘cool’ guy.”

“Wait… he thinks I’m _cool_?”

His question goes unanswered. “Don’t fuck him up anymore than he already is, Jean. Honest to God, I’ll kill you myself.” 

If it wasn’t for Reiner’s sudden bout of laughter, Jean might’ve wet himself. Annie’s intensity was always something that put him off when they were in high school. Also the fact that she could wipe the floor with the entire grade’s asses and not a hair on her head would fall loose. She was always something out of some comic, especially the American ones. Jean had always thought she’d fit right in with those kinds of people. 

“I won’t, Annie. Fuck, have a little faith in me.”

She doesn’t say anything, not that Jean actually expected her to. Whatever weirdly light and slightly confusing situation he had woken up to, it was sufficiently diffused into him just pushing what remained of his eggs around on his plate, while Reiner started to clean up. Annie made herself sparse, clearly done with drilling Jean, and watching her walk up the stairs until she disappeared from view, Jean sighed. His nerves felt absolutely frayed. 

“She means well.”

“I’m sure.”

Corners of his mouth turning upwards, Reiner doesn’t look at him. “I mean it though, Jean. Move on.”

Making a noise that wasn’t entirely agreement, but not necessarily disagreeing with Reiner, Jean pushed himself away from the counter finally. “One day.”

“Eren’s serious about you. Be a little more serious about him.”

“When did you start getting all paternal, Reiner? Seriously, people might start getting the wrong idea.”

“When I had to start rescuing spoilt Frenchmen from drowning in harbours on New Year’s Eve.”

“… Touche.”

Motioning with his head, Reiner finally gives him the okay to leave. Jean hadn’t even realised he’d been waiting for it. “Eren won’t be up for hours at least. Sleeps like the fucking dead. I’ll tell him you said you love him and shit when he wakes up.”

“Fuck you.” But Jean starts moving, twirling his phone in his hand. Just as he’s back in the hallway, at the door, he realises something. Poking his head back around, he frowns at Reiner’s back. “You didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t ask what?” Reiner responds, but he’s distracted by being up to his elbows in bubbles.

“If we slept together? In high school, you were always all over that shit.”

Booming laughter fills the room, and it might’ve been enough to wake Eren up. “Jean, do you know why I knew you didn’t?”

“Yes? That’s why I’m asking now?”

“Because you care too much. About sex, about Eren, about everything,” Reiner finally turns, grinning from ear to ear. “You might hate it, but you’re kind of a romantic like that. Not gonna lie, I always had a crush on you back then because you were so sensitive. It was really cute.”

“‘Cute’?!” Of all the insults to sling at him after getting in his face, Jean felt himself snap. “Alright, fuck you, Reiner Braun, that’s it, I’m done. I’m out. Bye!” Throwing his hands in the air, Jean slams out of the house with nothing but Reiner’s barking out behind him, and it was enough to set his entire face alight. _Cute_. That stung just as much as knowing Reiner always had a thing for him. Jean kind of wished he’d said something earlier (like probably five years earlier, or more than that again).

Kicking his way down to the car, Jean simmered in Eren’s scarf, and pulled the beanie down around his ears just a little more when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Not that he thought it would ever be possible, but the bags under his eyes actually looked a little smaller. Behind the wheel, Jean finally let his forehead meet the overly furry cover his mother bought for him one Christmas, as he tried to process the last few minutes, before he even started on the last twenty-four hours.

But then his phone dinged, and he decided that thought process would have to wait for another night of no sleep and coffee at four am. 

> tf r u????

Frowning, Jean taps out “erens” and turns the ignition on. Just as he’s about to throw the car into reverse, Marco must’ve been hitting send before forming a long enough text. It damn near shocked Jean into slamming on the gas, as his phone vibrated out along his thigh, chiming away as it went. 

> ms ral lookin 4 u

> u hv a assignment due

> jean pls hv ur hw on u

> ur gonna die

> im gonna kill u if u hv to repeat bc of dick

Once, Jean had always figured Marco would be an eloquent texter, simply because he had the neatest handwriting in seventh grade, and received his pen licence before the rest of them. Until they all got phones several years later and it turned out Marco was really into his online talk. 

Opting to just ring him and not try to decipher any texts or weird emoticons (why was there an _eggplant_ there, of all things?), Marco picks up on the second ring.

_“You’re alive!”_

“Just barely.” Jean doesn’t even try to rein his sarcasm in. He could almost feel another Spanish Inquisition coming on, but this time it just had freckles and made you feel bad for everything.

_“Please, just tell me you have your assignment. And that you’ll be able to get here before twelve.”_

“First of all, what assignment? How do you know about this assignment? Do you even realise where I am right now?”

_“Jean, it was the one you received like two weeks ago or something.”_

Pressing a fist against his forehead, Jean tried to think back to any assignments he’d received. They’d just received a lot of overnight things, to show in the morning. Mostly with poses and live models coming in each week. Jean was slightly thankful for the sudden overload, because it meant he had met Eren. Except

“Oh… no.”

_“You’re going to die.”_

Jean knew what he had done. He’d just pressed the assignment in between the pages of his sketchbook, far too wrapped up in Eren and his nakedness to have really thought about it. “She’s going to skin me alive. Marco, I’m not going. Petra might actually _eat_ me.”

_“Okay, really, it’s weird that you call her ‘Petra’ out of class—”_

“She does actually prefer we use her name, y’know.”

_“And two: do you have anything you can hand in?!”_

“I don’t even know what the assignment _is_! I never read the sheet.”

_“Make something up now?!”_

“All my shit is at my mum’s. I’m so fucked.”

Marco falls silent, and Jean considers ramming the car into another body of water. That would do the trick. Better that than to face the wrath of Ms Ral, coming to class without even any pencils on hand. A small part of him told him that he should’ve gone back to his mum’s after the argument, and that he wouldn’t be having this problem.

_“Just come to campus. Talk to Ms Ral.”_

“You might want to get a head’s start with the funeral planning then.” But Jean starts up the ignition once more, and waits for the handsfree to start. 

They don’t talk the rest of the drive, but Jean just focuses on the road and the traffic and Marco seemingly pacing, the way the background filtered through, like he was walking over gravel. With some shortcuts, it took Jean nearly a fraction of the time it probably would’ve, but he figured he shouldn’t drag out suffering at the hands of Ms Ral (and probably Marco) any longer than possible. There was something oddly pleasant about thinking he might truly die, like it might wipe away Reiner considering him cute, and Eren mumbling his name in his sleep. 

A knock at his window has him jump, and he hadn’t even realised he’d parked. Pressing the window down, Jean blinks as Marco looks one part amused and two parts worried. “You don’t own that beanie,” is all he says, and Jean lets his head hit the horn, sufficiently scaring Marco off his case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip jean  
> also the heterochromia i did kiiiiiiiiinda mention in the 2nd chap but it'll become... bigger... soon... this will all lead up to a Thing soon ? its only been like 10/11 days since they first met i realised my bad
> 
> also  
> cool kid jean kirstein once more
> 
> and one more thing before i forget, I've been writing rando small things from (mostly) eren's pov idk if i'll post them here in a side thing or on tumblr but they will go up somewhere (?) at some point ok ok


End file.
